Holy Water at the Park
I’m peeing at the Diamond Head Memorial Park. Smells like bad garlic. The crater of an extinct volcano floats in pre–dawn shadow. I’m the first arrival. Yellow hits his bronze marker, splashing off into grass. Mower every Tuesday morning. I imagine my water soaking down and dribbling in through a crack in the box, wetting his face. Bet whiskers grew after the service and locked in that angry 5 o’clock shadow. I don’t know why, but this sprinkling makes me think of finger dipping in Holy Water.
Altar boy meant zero. He’d beat me so hard I shit in my bed. Bet he wishes he could still crap under all this grass and fertilizer. I squirt him for not saying he was sorry, for never apologizing after years of belt and fists pounding me soft as steak tartare. I was tattooed with black and blue stripes and blood moons from knuckles. No mercy at school. The bullies nailed me in the showers, attacking the way strong fish nibble weak fish before taking bites from the body.
I want forgiveness. But who forgets bedroom door slamming, belt unbuckling, cursing during straps. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m so so sorry!” A car idles by and parks beside the statue of Jesus. I wiggle my penis. A final drop spills, falling to splatter the marker like blood.
Kirby Wright was born and raised in Honolulu, Hawaii. He is a graduate of Punahou School in Honolulu and the University of California at San Diego. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Wright has been nominated for five Pushcart Prizes and three Best of The Webs.