Black Eye Wale (Ballade)

The phone would ring at half-past two,
your voice all slur and cigarette rain.
Momma said, “We have to go get you,”
forty miles through the highway’s vein.
I’d count the turns to kill the pain,
pretend the night was just a game.

But even then, I somehow knew –
I’d always see you drunk the same.
The jukebox light, the beer-glass hue,
the way your laughter shook with strain,
her knuckles white on ten and two,
my small feet swinging, wide awake again.

She thought my mind too soft to stain,
too young to give the hurt a name.
But even then, I somehow knew –
I’d always see you drunk the same.
The morning came, but not for you;
you slept like storms forget the rain.

Your eyes went black, your lies stayed true,
you promised it would never come again.
I learned that vows dissolve in vain,
that love can burn and still be blame.
And even then, I somehow knew –
I’d always see you drunk the same.

O Father, if you feel my shame,
the years have dulled but not the frame.
I was too small, yet somehow knew –
I’d always see you drunk the same.

From the upcoming collection of poetry, “Black Butterflies”