Owolabi “Perhaps there is a monstrous origin to it, after all. Perhaps to lay hands on your child is to prepare him for war.” – Ocean Vuong Part 1 I wrote poems of gratitude to my father. Poems of honor. Poems imagining survival in Mississippi in the days when the crakkas had free reign over Black bodies. My ex-wife wondered why? She heard my stories, my heart, and only saw my tears. For years in our marriage, I cried. I processed pain and how his discipline came with fists and belts. I processed silent pain when I didn’t hear the . . .