Scents

When he opens his mouth, I inhale the hops

of Papst Blue Ribbon, the toast of Lucky Strikes,

Gillette's sandalwood floats from him, so too the

copper scent of deer blood and the opossum he slams 

against our house and boils unshorn. 

(He could have shot it--he keeps

rifles in the house.)

He’s not a family man, my grandmother warns

but my mother runs from her broken down country,

its wiped-out illusions, to New York and then regrets it 

immediately and every morning to that morning when my

father’s liver gives out and even after that, right up to when 

my mother takes her own last, she regrets it.

He tells her he’s sorry. He says so just before he points

to eagles circling above his bed. 

He says, I know when I'm right and I know 

when I'm wrong and I was wrong.   

That’s not good enough for my mother but it’s good 

enough for me.