Off early from B&R Diesel, sharp
with liquor and filtered Kings, he drifts
across the double-yellow, swings
into an iced-over lot. He runs me through
the basics: K-turn, parallel, back-in.
Jerks the Sierra into reverse and eases
the bumper up against the side
of the old bank building. We meet
at the end of the loaded bed, exhaust
and brakelight pooling around our knees.
He balls the front of my coat in his fist,
pulls me close to show the distance
between bumper and brick, pulls hard
until I’m up against the slender arc
of his collarbone, the fine dark stubble
shading his jaw, his hollowed-out cheeks.
He’s still beautiful, my father. Fluid.
Powerful. His bare forearms corded
with muscle, bristling in the cold. Yes,
he’s drunk. Yes, I have already begun the life-
long work of hating him, a job
that will carve me down to almost
nothing. I have already begun to catalog
every way he has failed me. Yes.
And here he is. Home early from a day shift
in Fall River. Teaching me what I need
to know. Pulling me roughly toward him,
the last half-hour of sunlight blazing
in his face, saying This is how close
you can get. Asking if I can see it.
If I know what he means. Saying This. This
close. Like this.