Upon Learning of My Father’s Cancer

I wanted to be the teacher,
the one who lectures on mythology and the
existence/non-existence of god—- that cold space between
reason and fear, that apparition so many hapless louts cheer
from the pews, that creator of all things who doesn’t
have to answer for his mistakes.
But I couldn’t.

Instead, I sat at my desk, thumbing through
Internet pages for engagement rings.

I am in love and my father has cancer.

I will marry, have children, and take my
place in the parade of fathers.

I wanted to drink and smoke, and pretend that I wasn’t affected.
Or rather, I wanted to pretend that I was affected more than I was.
I wanted to be my brother, terrified of my own human failings,
nauseated by the site of my own inter-workings—-

blood and shit, eyes and entrails.

But I couldn’t.

Instead, I sat at my desk in a state of general discomfort,
wondering if there was something foul growing within me too.

Of course, there is,
which is why I was able to hold back
the glaze of tears.

There is something terrible growing in all of us.

My father will die. This is certain, though when—-
and from what—- I am not sure.
But he is human.
My father will go, as did his father, as will I.

And this is not my malaise.
No. I am apprehensive.
I am anxious to know if everything will have its
reason and plan.
Will my railing at fate and destiny turn on me?
Will God with a capital “G”
shake his head at my unmoved reason and insistence—-
or better yet,
laugh at how weak I truly am?