Hide and Leak

For someone trying

to conceal evidence

he’s been drinking

Dad’s pretty lousy

at concealing evidence

he’s been drinking.

Tucked inside

a basket of laundry

I find a glass bottle

red cap

half-filled with clear booze.

My breath pulls in.

I don’t want to touch it,

use dirty clothes to

shove it down, down

under socks and wrinkled T-shirts.

Hide his secret better for him.

On the floor of the Celebrity’s back seat

I discover a fat wine bottle

empty on its side.

I falter,

kick it deep under the front seat,

concealing his carelessness.

When I hear Mom’s yells

floating from the garage

and Dad’s claim he

loaned the car to a friend

doesn’t even like wine

she’s acting crazy,

I swallow the bile of my guilt,

silently will Mom to

doubt herself

believe him.

She comes upstairs

cheeks flushed, eyes blazing

snaps at my staring,

“Nothing’s wrong. Go to your room.”

Clinging to a shrinking raft of denial,

I feel helpless

acquire a habit

smelling Dad for alcohol

automatically, anytime he’s near.

Especially if he’s happy.

Human Breathalyzer,

now there’s a skill

everything hinging

on that

sweet, smothering scent

that sinks my hope.

Dad’s drinking again.