He called collect for a reply to unanswered emails; he thought maybe I was dead –
but he’d been writing the wrong address.
The portion of his life that overlaps with mine:
a hymn of good intentions, if you speak Latin.
The mythology of his progeny; how the river of his blood sat diluted in my estuary.
“Ha,” he would bellow, overlooking the sea claim his legacy, “a fabrication from birth.”
And thus with my existence so neatly defined, I simply confirm to him I am alive.