The Sins of My Father

My Father chases the bottom of a bottle like it holds the universes best kept secrets.

He's not a religious man; raised Lutheran, but he finds his Hail Mary's in the ecstasy of poison. He drinks from it, it drinks from him, and there he finds ritual in his God- this my body, and I give it up for you.

What is God, after all, but our master? It's fitting that we'd get to pick our own.

As a child, I had enormous trouble understanding what drove him to the drink. I couldn't fathom the reasons behind his righteous judgement, raining down on me in the form of open palms, held not to heaven but to my innocent cheeks, and words more venomous than his patron saint.

I prayed for salvation; not my own, but his- to free him from the tyrant that commanded him to his fate- amen. I thought, perhaps foolishly, that the sins of my Father could reach absolution if only I loved him as much as he loved his holy spirits.

You can't love someone out of their doctrine. You can only convert or be converted.

I sup from the bottle, anointed in his faith, and I wonder;

Could I have helped him if i'd been stronger,

Or is this the only deliverance for us?

A genetic religion cradling us in the arms of our one and only God-

The blood of my Christ.