an early happy father's day :)

His accent slurs down his language
like a drop of sap from the bark of a tree.
Smooth; sultry;
bitter.        I still

want to reach out my tongue to taste it,
though every word seems superfluous
when they hang from honey bourbon.
Our conversation            is murmured  
through the buzzing      of a payphone,

And I imagine the remainder from his  shot glass
trailing down to where the stubble        of his chin 
meets the edge of Adam’s apple under balmy skin.

I picture my head below, neck strained
to take what is left of him,    
his eyes trailing the frame of
                            my own body.

What is a parent’s love if it does not save you
from them when you need it?            
Beer fed from the bottle
at the age where  tenderness
need not be a mystery.

Beer fed to numb the parts that hurt,
though I did not realize the hurt                      
until               I opened myself up to it.

—  Lorne Ryan, Bottle Fed