it is derivative destiny to find yourself sitting in front
of a man on a wizened chair. now say that
your destiny was derived from this same man:

because he was a man, he lacked the grace
to think of you as a swan egg, thought you were
a whorled fist spinning in the womb

who'd grow up to beat down all the walls,
instead of wanting to paint them,
yearning violence instead of venice

the picture arrived in the mail, yours,
like a godsend he clutched it,
smiled through bits of steel and shrapnel

he was not there to touch you, guide your hand
into smashing

but he is your history and you love him against the backdrop
of stripes and stars. he is history in the guise of organs.
history, with the one leg he has left
propped up on a stool