after Andrea Gibson’s “Photoshopping My Sister’s Mugshot”
January 1970
I find you in salmon cutoffs
and a handmedown Budweiser
tee; here at 7, staring through
me with eyes a familiar
waterlogged chestnut.
Your smallness seems mis
-placed. Your pink palms
have not yet known the chill
of a beer bottle’s embrace;
they hang open, empty,
strangers to the shape of fist.
You go to the front door
and press fresh knuckles
into the peeling pallid
paint in a rhythmic plea.
Grandpa’s hangover barks
back, BAC as high as the 6
AM sun, pee in the woods,
you’re too damn loud!
You drag your size four feet
to the edge of the brush,
goosebumps raising in protest.
I fairygoddaughter you
an American Standard
with dual flush system
just beyond the pricker bushes.
Your first bemused smile
blooms then; soon after
to be sobered by his shouting;
your fingers curl in tight.
April 1978
The Navy boys are back
in town and your boy
-hood is long vanished.
When the Red Dog
brew rears its fat head,
your parched cells salivate
for the slake, for the save.
This is the origin story,
the first sip that will
brand your insides, shackle
you to its curse-cure.
Rocky, your kitten,
has just been drowned
in the river by the neighbors.
Desperate to blur the Kodak
sharp memory of his
bloated little body,
you wrap your long fingers
around the sure neck
and already feel at home.
After I edit the script:
the first drop lands
like acid on your tongue.
You release the bottle to the earth,
it shatters in symphony.
Your unwobbling legs walk
with soaked socks to Springfield’s
animal shelter, strut sure and
eyes as clear as Poland Springs.
September 1983
Instead of bumming a ride with her
because you had a DUI,
your paths are braided together
in the supermarket, both reaching
thirstily for the coffee syrup.
At the brush of your storied fingers,
she blushes and her aqua eyes
look like they could quench you.
At study hall, she confesses
that she’s always wanted a horse.
You take her riding
and you find your deepest
thirst quenched by the sound
of her unrestrained joy.
This sound, its reverberations,
becomes your addiction.
You buy it in 12 packs
and guzzle it nightly.
When the day is long,
you take a swig of those eyes
and everything they promise.
May 1999
I am holding your soft
hand as we walk into
Fairhaven Lumber Supply.
I lean into your jacket
and breathe in not Sam Adams,
but Paul Sebastian.
You fill up a cone shaped
cup with the coldest freshest
water for me and it’s like
ice cream but smoother.
With the wood and your hands,
you build a home with a room
that you paint violet for me.
At night, the purple dims
maroon; the color of your father’s
cheeks. But never your knuckles.
In the maroon glow,
you rewrite the bloodline.
When you tell me you love
me, there are no exceptions;
no alcohol third wheel.
It is a rule. It’s me and you.
Today
The carpet never learns
the taste of your blood.
I never lock my door every
night and turn my light off
so you don’t find me.
You are never thirsty.
Sarah Leidhold lives in New England with her partner, their beloved pets,
and a tiny jungle of houseplants. She is a teacher of young children and is
also learning to embrace and heal her inner child.