My Father's Day
begins with my mother pulling him out of bed,
and if he cries out and she falters,
he insists, Pull harder.
But by breakfast he looks like an ordinary
father—thick wavy hair parted in the middle,
reading The Pleasantville Press—except
for the stiff beige brace that clasps his neck.
He's stirring four sugars into his cup.
On a better day, he might bestow
a hint of smile, quip,
I like a little coffee in my sugar.
But this morning he's silent as he heads down
the stairs, always reaching up two fingers
to tap the overhang. Superstition.
Or just to make sure he still can.
At nine, the drunks are already waiting.
What's the word? Thunderbird.
What's the price? Thirty twice.
He slips half-pints of blackberry brandy
into slim brown bags, hefts cases of Pabst
onto the counter. His spine is fused
into a deep curve, neck locked down,
so he has to tip back on his heels
to look you in the face.
Before dinner my father is supposed to sit
in the closet, his chin in a canvas sling
hooked up to ropes and pulleys.
Instead he wolfs down a sandwich
and rumbles back to the store.
At ten, they collect the change fund
from the driver, deadbolt the doors.
Is this yours? he asks me, holding up a schoolbook.
What he means is, Put it away.
My mother cooks him oatmeal
and they watch Jack Paar.
Then he climbs into her twin bed.
He always had strength for that,
my mother told me in a crowded aisle
of the grocery store the day after his funeral.
I'd never even seen them kiss or hold hands.
But then she spilled everything,
she couldn't stop talking, as though
the angel of death, in departing,
unlocks the jaws of the bereaved.
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