The book of the prodigal son’s daughter

and even after we go to meet our maker there’s an alley separating us
apparently in two rows of angels and saints
some with their head towards sunrise 
the others towards sunset

it’s snowing
i dream of a world with less tooth for a tooth and eye for an eye
a world with bread for a bread and flower for a flower
with that cup of water my father asked for before dying
my old man who drank only beer or vodka or synthetic juices
until it stroke him through his head and heart
dad
i did not come to your grave to thank you
the one who asked me for forgiveness five days before you passed away
the one who broke then in your fist that small porcelain doll
i was afraid off when i was a child
and you knew
i inherited your poverty but not your sins
do you remember when we used to play dice and canasta 
we both had blind luck
and someone was shamelessly cheating

yesterday’s snow settled down over all graves
over all vows
in a land without prophets like any other land
only the wind breaks spells skimming father’s bible
that one with a mahogany leather cover
it does not matter in which direction lies your head dad
may your memory be forgiven