Conversations With My Father 3

My father will never be able

To admit to the truth; that he

 

Is an alcoholic; most nights

He drinks himself to stupor

 

Stumbles into our house where

My brothers think it’s a good

 

Idea to challenge him to a

Wrestling match; I am hiding

 

In my bedroom when thunder

Slams into the ceiling; I hear

 

My mother yells at them to stop

Because my father’s head

 

Hit the corner of the end table

And now blood is spilling

 

From his skull