If I love my father, and I think I do,
it’s because he is a butcher,
knows what a butcher does.
They get loaded on Budweiser,
play air guitar to the Allman Brothers,
curse at local news stories, their wives,
always have a quick hundred stashed
for when those children, now adults,
are hurting for cash,
and they give it with creviced hands,
silently cry because they wish it was more,
wish it always had been.
Every month of the year is January
in a windowless meat locker.
They wear wool sweaters through heat waves,
shit blood for days before seeing a doctor,
cure the morning shakes with beer
stashed under their car seats.
One thing they do not do
is fucking dance.
First appeared in Chiron Review