—JUST HOLD ON LOOSELY, AND DON’T LET GO

 

 

 

Stories

 

Tell me a story, kid, 

my dad used to say, 

as if I had dozens

stashed in my socks,

as if I possessed an ounce 

of moxie or nerve.

If he knew how 

he scared me, 

he wasn’t telling,

and that frightened me more, 

his bones made of ancient stone, 

his jaw pure Rushmore.

Mother was her own cyclone, 

Tasmanian devil, witch, and jackal, 

all stitched into one, 

but Dad did her bidding—   

robotic, fake-eyed blind,

the lashes always with the buckle end— 

which weaponized and 

made him fiercely unpredictable.

During one installment—  

while my youngest brother 

screamed and bled—  

I thought I saw a teardrop

slip down Dad’s face, 

only to realize a second later 

the difference between 

mercy and muscle strain.

Tell me a story, kid, 

he said again when I didn’t answer, 

so this time I shooed the cigarette smoke away,

sat down, and never stopped telling.