CRITICA

I imagine my father’s proud, dignified face, his bristly
hair and beard, stuffed and fixed by the neck
to the wall like the head of that deer, his eyes glassy

and focused straight ahead at something no one else can see
in death as they were in life.  I like it.  I wonder
if this stuffed head would remind me

of something hard to remember.  Like what Jesus told
his disciples, when they asked him how to know
the right thing to do, and Jesus answered,

“Don’t do what you hate.”  I’m in the woods now,
where I see a waterfall endlessly batters 
the intricate boulders below.  What is the purpose

of power.  Last week I read that victims
all ask the same question, Why.  And the answer is always
the same:  Because I can.

People were skinned and turned into lampshades.
What is the purpose 
of power.

My father tells me I’m stupid.  
What is the purpose
of power.

The waterfall gleams in shivers of light
light that falls through nets of swaying pine needles, light that water
simply takes for its beauty.

Somewhere a scientist studies nerves
connecting brain to eye:  is it the eye
or the brain that decides

what to see.  How did my father decide
to see me as his victim.  The waterfall glimmers
and suddenly I see

I was a boulder.  But now I am free to be
the water, turning generators, playing on boulders, 
kissing pebbles.  I can use my power 
to be good.