Between you and me,
the eye rolls often bruise
this thin-skinned dad of yours,
but on Sunday, as the body was being torn
and the blood poured out,
you made me laugh
as we exaggerated the motion—
first, the closing of the lids,
tightly, for affect,
followed by a swift turn of the head,
like Blue Steel, or a double-take
in the bathroom mirror, crescendoing
into an ocular performance of annoyance
that would put Veruca Salt to shame.
It was ice on the wound,
the seriousness of God.