You are who I would wish for – he is not. 

The direction in which generations lie tied together by twine, meld as one by blood in resin. Should you strain it, turning sour like bleu cheese – aquired taste, to the dismay of my intestines. 
“It’s a disease,” Father would say while he wipes the yolk of an unborn chick across my cheek, insists I know better than to succomb to the ailments life offers. “We must be better,” he claims spreading more onto me, then corrects himself with white-out; the words scabbed over to ‘you.’ 
Disgusting texture lingers on my face as my youngest self reluctantly agrees.

You are the one I would wish for. He is not. 
You used eggs in my birthday cakes.
I honor our tether together now making my own –
while you rest in your grave.

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By Elizabeth Novotny