Once, I asked
if you were a god,
metal rings and coarse
Sicilian hair cloaking
each of your thick red
knuckles, and the knowledge
of or-else following you
into every room. All you said
was not anymore. You left me
hiding at the bottom of the stairs
in our first mansion, so large
the neighbors couldn’t hear
Mom scream. You still live
in the panicked punches
of my heartbeat, closer
than we were in life. Arm’s length
was the range of your fists,
so that’s where you kept me.
But what about that day at the zoo?
Craig’s arm was around your shoulders,
proximity only a big brother
one full wife older
than me could be brave
enough to occupy. I don’t know
how we were so close
to a deer, but we were,
and she untied your shoelace.
And you laughed, a chortle,
big enough to carry
me as you never could.
Then you decided the world
would be better off without you,
so you saved us
from yourself on the back
of five stockpiled Rx bottles.
You weren’t a god.
You were only human,
and today, I’ll call you
Dad.