Never Goin' Back

Six years sober today, this from Karaoke Funeral:


I’m sitting on him in my living room chair,
his lap like a table where my bills pile up,
his lap a glossy stage I dance across,
and from it rises his big carpenter’s hand,
then down and into my shirt, he’s asking
if I’d have his child. Fat fucking chance,
I’m thinking. “I know all I need to know,”
he soothes as we’re watching PBS on the widespread
use of antidepressants; I’d rather pay a shrink
the hundred-plus dollars to whine about
my father’s floating penis, about that straw
perched on the lip of that tall drink, that olive
trembling in the bottom of a glass, and zombie dreams
starring my dead sister, grave-tight until twilight
when she appears, post-autopsy, offering up
odd pieces of herself. Here’s what Big Guy Lover
doesn’t know: Alcoholics take hostages.
He pulls my face up to his, his eyes deep
as disco, says, “Sweetie, I know you could never
be depressed, you smile too much.” I just grin
and shimmy over the hardwood, an unransomed
history aimed at his head.


Collin Kelley said...


E! said...

So proud of you, Tania!

greg rappleye said...


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