My father cries out from his crib, tie and suitcoat
ironed, pressed. On the TV, Jackie O in her black dress.
His mother clasps her cocktail crushed with ice chips,
glossy eyes lost in the footage of Glen Campbell crooning,
strumming his guitar. We tell her who he is three times:
That’s Glen Campbell, we say. His voice is marvelous, she exclaims.
Isn’t it? Isn’t what? While leaving, she trips down the steps.
He lifts her up. We pull in her driveway. I lead her inside.
She’ll slip on her nightgown, speak with the ashes.
Once, driving home from a long party, looming highway
light poles glazed pools of dull orange into my windows.
A spectral woman crawled the guardrail, lit by our taillights,
searching for her daughter amongst a deluge of shattered glass.
My father often initiated a drunk, drive-home game of trivia.
What is the relation between Darth Vader and Luke? Who lassoed
the moon like it was a wild mustang? Who stayed up all night
chewing ice chips waiting for her husband to walk through the door?
My father opened the backseat. The lights blinkered on.
He carried me through the door, eyelids flickering.
I laid my head on his shoulder. He set me down.
In the cool night fell asleep as quickly as I awoke.