They Eat Dogs in China

            Or so my father said— 
the clock on the mantle silenced, 
            that family Bible 
                        in his hands a weight in the pans 
            of judgment. That evening 
splintered, as if a cross were being nailed 
            to my body—the warped 
                        light of the lamp casting halos 
            on the floor, the ivy 
growing waxier. The weaker I 
            became, the more I loved 
                        the antique Chinese urn that fell 
            from the shelf, his fingers 
bleeding onto my Book of Mormon— 
            torn pages like damask 
                        paper roses crumpled to the floor. 
            Nothing the Elders taught 
prepared me for this, my father’s throat 
            swelling with ghosts—a pack 
                        of feral dogs outside the door.