Striking Sonnet 2

To hit, to scream, to throw, to curse, to loathe.
As in dying, there is no turning back.
The sting of the slap lingers, the tears salt
the air, the heart speeds, leads to resentment.
My father used to belt, smack, chase, throw plates
say “papatayin kita”, “I’ll kill you”
for things like breaking a glass or saying
damn or making out with “dat boy Jerome”.
I hated him for this, prayed that God would
take him away. Now his fires still rage
through my veins, in my mind, sometimes my hands,
smoking my senses. I strike as reflex.
I want to stop this hitting tradition
before my anger burns through memory.