The first was a downward stroke
by an uppity Father
convinced he held the grace,
mistaking force for blessing.
Years later the sky clarified herself:
weather, blood, accident, law,
the cold machinery turning beautifully in the dark.
No judgment in it.
No mercy either.
Only consequence and light.
So the faces remain,
one carrying the blow,
one carrying the question.
Morning enters the room
empty-handed.
I pour into both.
