Believer
by Nicholas De Marino
Dad’s travel journals glow, newly sacred, brimming with Bible verses in tight precise script. His notes and sketches in the margins, though — fevered visions. Sea serpents missing scales. Nephilim sprouting from earth without feet. Menacing dinosaurs, proportions all wrong. I could’ve helped with the pictures. But he never took me along. I was too … sick. Too … broken. Too … shit, I don’t know. I can’t figure out how to bridge this to Luke 10:19. To him trampling snakes and scorpions and all that dominion over creatures crap. I don’t really care, anyway. My dad’s still alive. And a lapsed Catholic, not a Creationist. He never took me anywhere because he never went anywhere. But that’s not interesting and I can’t bring myself to write directly about our relationship. That’s why I’m resorting to myth and adventure. To god as a father proxy. But, for Christ’s sake, if he’d put one of my fucking monster pictures on the fucking fridge, I wouldn’t be writing this. Maybe the one with all the crooked teeth, feral hair, and razor claws next to the giant exploding volcano? How about that one? Does that sting enough? Will I ever get over this? Or forgive him? Or forgive myself for not forgiving him? Or writing these fucking poems about him.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent writer and poet. He founded 5enses and is a foofaraw columnist and Codex member. He’s got several writing credits, degrees, and accolades that have nothing to do with cats. Plus some that do. Read more at nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.