On one hand hillsides and houses, hornets
hovering near hydrangeas.

 

All my youth squandered, reaching for the other hand
until I shook with frustration,

 

unable to grasp it.

 

On a hillside, inside one house, passed out,
my father sprawled on the cat-torn couch, snoring.

 

His drinking is a kind of peace
the way a pacemaker is a kind of heart: yes

 

and no…

 

I know too much about crawling
on the carpet, cleaning up bottles
sheltered under his hand like a bumbershoot.

 

Bourbon Breath, Beer Belly. For the boy I was
both surnames for beauty

 

and blunder. Both bound me

 

until the other hand crept
through the open window, closed my father’s eyes,
and ripped from the house my body.

 

On this palm bees bump me
while they stumble in flight, drunk
off nectar. I tell them alight, sleep.
In the morning there will be more pollen,

 

more drink, but peace we receive in doses
as if through the sting of syringes.
It only envelops the mind at rest
and while the hive remains

 

distant, our own buzzing muffled.