into the grass on a clear summer
night alone holding the neck
of a paper bag, my dad
drags a sigh out of his mouth
as if over gravel turns
his face back to the road
and in that moment
as the soft part
of my stomach that only comes
alive for special sorts
of sadness twists
I promise to never
remind my father of the selves
he has left in the past
but of course, like all children,
I am always almost dying
even before the red bathroom
and the pit-stop three blocks
from my house with no neck
but my own and my fingers
down it and dinner in the grass,
the night with the headlights
and how I didn’t even move
as they touched me
with their two bright moons
and then were gone.