I am tempted—
not by God, but by the hollow hum
beneath my ribs: a silent scream,
a whisper like a blade.

It strokes my skin with phantom hands,
drags its teeth along my bones,
swears it knows my name.

Come, it says, I’ll make you feel alive.
So I sit.
I let the hunger gnaw.

Where would I run?
What fool fights the wind?
I clench my fists, press keys instead—
each letter a nail in its coffin.

God, strike the match.
Let this want burn.

It's June the 9th—
I'm pensive about having
a figure so significant.

I've watched my dad pull an engine
from a Nissan Sunny, alone—
fix it, reinstall it, alone.

I've watched my dad shirtless every morning,
praying in tongues.
We never owned a rooster,
never needed an alarm—
only my dad's voice, praying in tongues.

When my dad speaks, I fall silent.
I become a fool—
a listening fool.

I've watched my dad move shrewdly:
once, when school opened
but money wouldn't stretch,
he bought old batteries,
sold them as scrap
the same day—
so I could pay my fees.

I'm pensive about having
a figure so significant.

I'm baffled
by his patience.
He sits in rooms thick with noise,
conversations crashing over each other,
but barely speaks—
still, patient.

I praise my dad.