my hands and heart
pray a rosary
of a different sort
.
one constructed by survival
that was never blessed
by a politician in a gaudy dress
and fetid purse in vatican city
.
the first bead is my mother
whom i thank for giving me life
.
the second bead is my father
who took his own
under the misguided notion
my existence would be improved
by the tortured deed
.
the third is shared by two men
who stepped in
to protect and daddy me
as they are my personal diocese
.
and the fourth is a thank you
to the man who taught me to appreciate
the good in the world
by showing me
how sick a human can be
.
and he should be grateful
as his best poetry has come
from hating
unapologetically happy
me