christ­mas morning, 1968

1.

Irish coffee at dinner.

The aroma of roasted beans

can’t mask

that smell

that smell

whiskey

sliver moon harass­es me back

to that night, so cold—

our old station-wagon

upside down in a crik

wheels clawing at the sky—

she said,

2:00 am on the other end

of our line—

she said,

prob­a­bly a heart attack—

2.

my mother presses the rosary into my hand—

I clutch them to my flow­ered nightgown

mouth the recitation—

the police cruiser slides on the dark,

icy black roads of Dushore—

Mother silence scares me—

the 25-mile ride

and cres­cent shaped dents

in the palm of my hands—

3.

I don’t need to see

the blood-shot eyes—

the stench you enough

famil­iar misery drops

in the creases around

my mother’s eyes—

she pivots like a soldier in retreat,

the door slams closed behind us—

click, catches in my brain

How many trips.

How many times.

I shrug, she sighs, we don’t pray.

She pushes me ahead.