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You Invite Me to Sit
Brian Dickson I imagine myself as my dad, walking into your bar at home, framed purple heart on the wall above the television beaming– (probably a John Wayne movie or golf), you on a stool, hand propping your head, tumbler to your right. Hey, son, you might say, then You just don’t understand, then, this out-of-rot-gut experience: You invite me to sit. In front of you is your liver, bruised blue, a bellow to mine. I reach into my flesh, pull– and marvel. You quickly lay out napkins. Straw in hand, you jab the fatty tissue on mine, point at the scars on yours. At least you have time, you say. On your mini jukebox Hank Sr. croons. There are too many whiskey songs on the playlist. We shove our organs back in place, nod at whatever comes next, this old song of hold, tell and drown. I ask about WWII, and it splashes into your glass. |
Photo by Thomas Park
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