I Am My Father's Son
Looking at my hands, 
I remember my dad’s busted knuckles, 
Bloodied like the hands of a pugilist. 
Except Dad slugged it out as a mechanic. 
His version of grappling with the Genesis curse. 
No fair fight is flesh against steel. 
“You’ll end up sitting behind a desk,” Dad prophesied. 
True, no mechanic am I. 

Looking at my hands,
Holding a preacher’s pwn,
My weapons words not wrenches.
Why then do I often find my knuckles, 
Like Dad’s, also bloodied? 
Because Dad’s war begat mine or worse. 
Shadowboxing against spirit augurs no better result.

Looking at my hands, 
I remember Another’s bloodied by work,
Who, with Flesh and Spirit, beat down that awful curse,
And I’m reminded in Whose image I was begun.
I am my Father’s son. 
In more ways than one.