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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.
Picture
Photo by Thomas Park
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