My father likes to play hide and seek
with his responsibilities.
I phone him,
cut his head off with a medical bill
that makes him shove my eyes
into his hollowed pockets
Not because I enjoy
how his words uncuff my anxiety,
or his misconstrued display of rightness.
Sometimes I wonder
if there were different religious books
for people like him,
and another low-quality one for the rest of us.
He’s a master at loosening every fibre
of obligation from the lace of his reality.
On the other side of the phone,
he says,
“Recite Falaq and Nas three times,
pour into a bowl of water and drink.
There’s nothing that God cannot make
go away with prayers.”
The line cuts
before I think of the next word to say.
My father thinks himself
a wise man.
He leaves you with unseen hands
that shift the cosmos into a wholesome globe.
My mother goes about
wondering how she’s survived this
for over 20 years.
Her voice,
the one noise that dispels my anxiety.
So I phone my father again.
This time, I tell him
the bill has been sorted out.
And he does not ask how.
