mom says she’s been clean
for two-months.
so i’m letting her
see my nine-month old son
again.

he and my wife
are in the house with her
now.

i’m out here
because my mother is sneaky
and i don’t think
she’s clean.

the three film canisters
underneath sheet-music
in a cardboard box
are full of darvocet
and unmarked
blue pills.

i put the box back
pills still inside.

i walk to the window
at the east wall.

it’s still cracked
from when i shot it
with my bb gun
when i was twelve.

i thought my father
was going to beat my ass
when he came home,
but mom said
she’d accidentally done it
with the broom handle.

right now
dad’s at one of
three bars.

he keeps “tennessee moonshine”
in pickle jars
on the shelf over there.

i’d like to lock myself
in here
open a lawn-chair
and empty a few
of the jars.

i’d like to be
a different father
to my son.

there is
blood.

my fist
is on the other side
of the window.

Justin Hyde