Hockey Night In Canada
Lisa Murphy-Lamb
My father
sits in his chair, feet elevated
a tumbler
deep with amber whiskey
at his side,
watches
Hockey Night in Canada
like he does each
Saturday night.
I play
with a loose front tooth
my tongue pushing it forward
and back
and read from
a yellow bound book-
no baby illustrations
on its cover
a grown up reader at
eight.
Come here and let me
see that tooth
I put my book on the couch I open
wide
Is it this front one?
I nod as his fingers go to my mouth
and I find it is hard to swallow
with my mouth held wide
but I do stand
still
saliva collecting
around my molars,
I breathe through my nose.
A cheer
from the television
and my dad looks away
and
blood,
the battery
warm taste
fills
my mouth.
My tongue digs deep
into the bloody hole
as my mother
comes from the
kitchen
with kleenex
Dad hands me
his drink
to cleanse my mouth
the ice cubes
clink together.
I allow the amber
liquid to linger
on my lips
brace myself then
pour the liquid-fire
that bandaids
my mouth
and,
like hockey and my weekly
bath
schedules
Saturday in our home.
I swallow
then settle
in
to his lap and
against his broad chest
hold on tightly
to the crumpled
kleenex in
the palm
of my hand
inhaling the whisky
on his
breath
And wonder if
he
too
can smell it
on
mine.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment