Tell me again
about your corkscrew-tailed terrier
hit by the milk truck—
how grandpa scooped
the limp dog in one arm
and the tear-streaked you in the other,
carried both to the house
where the dog lay beneath the wood stove
for two full weeks.
Tell me again
about ushering at the Palace Theater—
the tiny cap,
the flashlight meant
to guide patrons to their seats—
though most ignored you
and sat wherever they pleased.
Tell me
about cleaning the chicken coop
when a tornado ripped through the farmyard,
lifted a cow
and set it down gently in a plowed field
four miles away—
how you searched for it
and found instead
the little girl, pale-armed,
face down in a muddy ditch.
Tell me, Father,
why you hide in the basement,
the garage,
sneak bottles and cans,
chain-smoke low-tars,
snarl at my mother,
mutter at the children.
Tell me about those long dead people
who looked past
a blond-haired boy
who would become this—
a sad man
sitting in dark rooms
trying to drown
every memory
from his sky-blue eyes.