This poem was so, so good. I’ve never heard of this author before and I don’t normally read poetry, but I’m going to pick up a copy of his book now.
was the same summer he met my mother.
He and Uncle Max, home from college,
worked the family farm, drove cattle
between fields, passed out by a fire
after trading swigs of Old Grand-Dad
from Max’s flask, the night sky lit up
like a marquee, “Kashmir” playing softly
on their portable radio. It was 1975.
On off days, he’d drive to Carbondale
and see Dylan or Elton. He grew
his first beard, wore aviators and snap-button
shirts, smashed a copperhead’s skull
with the heel of his boot. He met her,
friend of a friend, on someone’s front porch.
Late July. He pulled a beer from a cooler
and handed it to her. Overhead, carpenter bees
dug into the eaves, dropping a little wood dust
that hung in the air, caught on the wind,
briefly softening the view, lightly obscuring it.
At what point should I tell you
my father spent that summer on the farm,
resigned from his job in Chicago,
because he abandoned his first marriage,
washed his hands of a daughter, and hardly
looked back? And what to do with this?
Knowing my existence depends
on these facts—the beer, the radio,
my sister—every one of them.