Winner of the 2018 Furrow Prize for Poetry
by Jamison Rankin
and i can only face it if i’m not sober. i don’t
want to be sober for the oak that splits the
dodge dakota. i don’t want to be sober for
the dog that cries lullabies in the backyard.
i don’t want to sober for another godless
chucktown catastrophe. we’ve all got a different
way of dealing with catastrophe, i’ve learned that
now. for me, seventeen and spring like the bracken
beneath my feet, it’s another beam off the jim, it’s
a funny cigarillo wedged in the crack of a storm door.
for my father, it’s a marlboro lantern, eyes that see
past the budweiser, a revolver with a banged up
barrel slack in his pocket. i feel the weight in my
arms when he tells me if they loot, we’ll shoot.
the neighborhood is empty but the roads swell
like a monsoon. the power strikes out like a match
thrown in a puddle ashtray. in the black, i see him,
cross-legged, waiting for that bolt to quiver. his
chest a dome of pride and nothing less. enough
target practice, let’s get down to what we can’t
see in this hurricane; arthritis in the hands,
trigger fingers like a slap to the cheek, eyes
that can’t unsee what they beg to paint black.
we’ve all got a purpose in this house and
my shot is only good if his isn’t.
