His god made him simultaneously strong and weak, I was told

Odd, wrong, meek, the surviving spouse at a funeral

Humourless as the miscellaneous bereaved

Stealing joy with an assortment of self-imposed rivalry.

Back in the day, he would frequent the library: determined, bold

Where, with dread, he would flick through the science he never bought

And as stars aligned

He continued to vacuum happiness

Buying only into the inexplicable biblical things

reserved for his kind.

I observed as I was ought:

Pretending not to read him

Pretending not to need him

Keeping quiet

In case of argument or riot

And because light was at a premium

His eager, bohemian child learned what to cherish

And as he perished, he knew he’d been had.

My father was the dullest dying star at the funeral for his universe

And with me as his nurse

There was no god to see that he was bad.