Jack Daniels lodged between cherry and alder logs,
Dad and Uncle Norman stumbled up,
then down the steps, into,
then through the door.
Mom and Auntie Zelma, arms crossed
in anger and legs crossed in the
‘no-sex-for-you’ position,
had spent the evening doing
each other’s hair, co-creating
codependent doos, and doo knots.
Brother and I counted the word ‘bastards,’
about a thousand I think.
We slipped past the shrieking and slurring ritual,
out the door, and the treasure hunt was on.
There was fire hidden in that wood pile,
we had plans to light the stick of innocence
and watch the swirling spirits rise.
Golden oblation, alchemical adolescence
transforming boys to enthusiasts.
Twist the metal top, Holy sweet Jesus
combustion in the esophagus,
purging pain we didn't even know was there,
the first fall of many dominoes
stacked end to end.
But best of all was breakfast, watching
Uncle Norman pray and repent to Jesus
until the eggs were cold.
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