Raindance

When my uncle leaves the house
I always see a bloated column of
smoke in the distance.
 

He returns smelling of fire,
squeezing a handful of change
having exchanged lucidity for
cracked beer bottles he drains
into his throat.

 

Every morning I watch him urge

the rainclouds like hatching eggs 

and in the evening, ball his fists

and shout at the sky.
 

The mist of strong storms
brew in the fists of my father
and his brother, but it isn't downpour
cadences they hammer at
ceremonies, although often
they bring rain.

 

I see my first waterfall when

my dad's right eye begins to

reverse its swelling, its bruise

receding to the shores of his eyelid,

allows light to trickle in after

three days of ice through a zip-loc.

 

It is nine days after
my uncle's funeral when I muster
several broken teeth from the grill
of the car that killed him
and throw them off the Grand
Canyon. "Your uncle killed
himself." My father tells me,
old memories puffing his eyes
with rain and red lightning.
 

"The only time I saw him smile
was at sunrise."

Reviews

[Emily B]

you are truly a brilliant poet

[radian7]

Tough subjects: anger, substance abuse, violence and death. "the car that killed him... Your uncle killed himself " - is this refering to the frustration, hopelessness, substance abuse that led to the uncle's death by being hit by a car? Anger and frustration of a culture supressed (for lack of a better word at the moment)? Both brothers have strong storms in their fist symbolic of this anger.

"after three days of ice through a zip-loc - good allusion.