Poetry | December 11, 2020
Poems: Janette Schafer
When I was five, I discovered alcohol in abandoned red cups
scattered about the Green House, the first place we lived
in Detroit after Venezuela.
Dad rolled blunts on a burned-out coffee table while Mom
played with his wiry black hair. Aunt Sherry put her hand
on his knee, slid her fingers up to his zipper.
I went from cup to cup, from room to room
as motorcycle after motorcycle parked
in our front yard.
The beer, a healing bitter herb,
a toy kaleidoscope, swirl of orange, yellow,
and red in fragmented shapes
amid the noise of black leather
and silver chrome. I fell in a slow arc,
mother’s laughter, liquor in my ringing ears.
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