Tonight's Poet Corner: Putting Out A Fire
Putting Out A Fire
by Belinda Roddie
During a particularly bad argument
with my brother, my drunken father
thought it'd be a good idea to douse
my receding hairline with very,
very sticky liqueur.
The booze lingered so harshly, and
the aroma hovered so aggressively, that
I nearly choked on my own vomit while
hobbling to the bathroom to wash my head.
He never apologized for it.
Most fathers don't like apologizing.
And my brother never took back the awful
barbs he buried in my spine, the reason I felt
the skin in my neck tighten into spirals
and my tongue spin out of control
like a flailing thread from a spool.
Brothers like to bronze the pain
for safekeeping. Somehow,
I hope he realizes there's no value
in hating my inner tattoo.
by Belinda Roddie
During a particularly bad argument
with my brother, my drunken father
thought it'd be a good idea to douse
my receding hairline with very,
very sticky liqueur.
The booze lingered so harshly, and
the aroma hovered so aggressively, that
I nearly choked on my own vomit while
hobbling to the bathroom to wash my head.
He never apologized for it.
Most fathers don't like apologizing.
And my brother never took back the awful
barbs he buried in my spine, the reason I felt
the skin in my neck tighten into spirals
and my tongue spin out of control
like a flailing thread from a spool.
Brothers like to bronze the pain
for safekeeping. Somehow,
I hope he realizes there's no value
in hating my inner tattoo.
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