I drove him to Alcoholics Anonymous,

and he didn’t believe, but held tight a bible,

devout Roman Catholic, reading Vatican News,

my bronze mother always a day from mariticide,

like poor Mary Hobry, whose foul husband was

an abusive drunk, and stole her money, too,

righteously strangling a man who forced himself

enough times to deserve ten deaths over;

and the years went well,

long strolls around public parks,

watching birds in the spring,

cabinets gone unlocked,

a moustache no longer nesting brandy.

nearing the end,

he asked for a final drink, like Bill Wilson,

and I didn’t have the gall to say no,

draining whiskey into a dingy plastic cup,

the window was open,

and I thought about tossing it all,

but he smiled, giggled, for the first time

in months.

at home,

my mother slapped me, lip busted,

blood down the chin,

and I deserved it; my father downed

the whole bottle:

she walked to her room, but said:

he almost had it,

he almost had it

and you ruined it.

----------------------------------------

Brandon Shane is a poet, born in Yokosuka Japan. You can see his work in the Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded,  Sophon Lit, Marbled Sigh, Verdant Journal, Heimat Review, among others. He would later graduate from Cal State Long Beach. Find him on Twitter @Ruishanewrites