Notes on Free Will

My choices made me who I am.

      I could’ve been the Son of Sam—

              I could’ve been a violent man.

      The image of my father returning from jail hangs in my

mind like a dusty painting. I want it to stay the same, but

       the colors keep changing. 

My mother and I share a thirst for

      self-annihilation. The image of her face

               kept my ceiling from becoming sanguine. 

     I met him at the front door and wrapped my

arms around his waist. I’ve yet to reach the age

       when I can be confined for my mistakes.

My maternal grandmother was like

     the Gordian Knot. She’d heat knives on the

              stove instead of pots.

       We went for ice cream in the Arab neighbourhood.

Their mosque recited prayers through a loudspeaker—

       it even reached our neck of the woods.

My brother gave me a loaded revolver

      for safekeeping. I’d not made him aware

               of my suicidal thinking.

       Dad abstained from drink and curse words. My

paternal grandfather would fly into alcoholic rages

        whenever his temper stirred.

I remain wholly capable of anything.

        The overwhelming proof is

              embedded in my genes.