#lucasscott
My wife holds my hand tightly as we enter the tiny church
The harsh odor of wet wool, cotton and dust fills the foyer
The pews are full. The signature book thick with names
Sifting through, we find a seat as the dirge comes to a close
The preacher is loud and sweaty and a distant cousin, I’m told
His mud-brown suit and tie clash against the stage’s ornate bouquets
He assures us there’s a heaven and that my grandfather was a good man
His thick southern draw a slow assault; the eulogy, a battleground
Stories are shared, and they are sweet. He paints a righteous man
Hands are raised, amens shouted. A relative grips me hard and weeps
In Jesus name, hallelujah, the lord giveth; the lord taketh away
Bow your head in prayer, he says. Let us remember our brother
And I remember. Images enter my head, and I clench my teeth
The drunken fights with grandma, the hammer used to defend herself
The scar on his palm, the knife mom drove through his calloused hand
The dark coat closet, the sound of the lock his children heard, the cries
The line to his casket is long. The sobs overpowering the morose hymn
His children are lined next to him. My grandmother is holding his hand
I lean in to see him one last time. His red nose has vanished
He smells of embalming fluid, and his shirt is wet with tears
Jan 8, 2020
Jan 8, 2020 at 4:46 PM UTC
Here you are, reading some book
When you should be out there
Playing football and eating *****
We got work to do
You gotta move those shingles
I gotta hammer those nails
Don’t carry so much up the ladder at once
You’ll wreck your back and slow me down
I don’t want to be stuck here with you all day
There you are, writing again
You look so different with a pen in your hand
Without packs of shingles on your shoulders
I don’t understand why you do that
You’re supposed to be a baseball star
You’re supposed to win, make me proud
You’re supposed to hate the *******
Crack jokes and laugh at the queers
I just want to be proud of you
Anyway, the last teardown left a huge mess
Put down that pen, grab that pick, and get in my truck
These shingles ain’t moving themselves
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 2:27 PM UTC
Laying among the brown and green and red
its glassy eyes, faint and unfocused
against heavy breathing
Great job, my father’s knife unsheathes
he pats me on the back, hard and so loud
I must lean on my crossbow
We carry it back to his truck
a heavy mess, and it stinks
we work together
He tells me about his friends
the people he spends all his time with
how they all play Euchre
I ask how to play. What is trump?
He laughs. The weight shifts
I’ve asked this so many times before
With a wet thud, we throw it in his truck bed
it hides beneath a tattered light blue tarp
fastened with frayed bungee cords
Driving, he talks about his softball team again
and in his cracked rearview mirror
the tarp lifts slightly, and I see its fat tongue
My head turns. The tears are too warm
I fall into my hands, cheeks swollen
my father focuses on the road, hands gripping the wheel
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 2:16 PM UTC