The Brooklyn Rail

Dear Dad

You are the best

guy to be a Dad.

You are my Dad

and I think you are great

as a dad and as a guy.

You have taught me

how to be friendly

and trustworthy and loyal

and that is why, Dad I will never ever tell you about

all the arson I did last summer.

Remember all that arson?

Those awful fires?

Remember that restaurant where we used to eat lunch together?

Taco Jack’s. Remember how we had lunch together, Father and son?

We had a nice time and the next day it burned down.

That was because the very next evening, after our lunch,

I doused it in gasoline

and lit it up with a homemade explosive.

And Dad, I’ll never forget

seeing the tears roll down your face.

as you watched Ben’s Fly-Fishing Supply store

burn to the ground.

I had never seen you cry before.

Your face looked so tortured when illuminated by

those bright, hot flames.

Your sobs taught that expressing emotion

could be a form of strength.

See, you’re always teaching me, Dad.

Seeing you so vulnerable,

I almost felt bad that

I lit that match.

But I suppose ol’ Ben shouldn’t have looked at me

with mocking eyes.

But the person I really feel bad for is you, Dad.

The father who loves fly-fishing

and fly-fishing supplies.

I hope you never find out

it was your own flesh and blood,

who devastated and terrified the entire town last summer.

Because I love you, Dad and I want you

to be proud of me. You’re the one

who’s shown me how to be a great man

and that was a really cool thing to learn.

A Pivotal Scene

I tried out a new therapist this morning.

During the session, I told him

I was a writer and we talked about writing.

He told me he was reading Anna Karenina,

and then I, in great enthusiasm, proceeded

to spoil a pivotal scene

in the book — the ballroom scene. You know the one.

He signaled with his hand for me to stop talking.

He told me he was not that far along in the book.

I felt terrible.

I spoiled a pivotal scene!

I apologized and he said it was fine.

“Let’s continue,” he said.

I tried talking about myself again.

But I couldn’t stop feeling like shit

for spoiling such a pivotal scene.

And so, I interrupted myself to apologize again.

He asked why I felt it was necessary to do so,

which led me

to discussing my shame and embarrassment

and I think I had a breakthrough.

But then after the session we realized

he doesn’t take my insurance.

My Finger

I burned a hole in the pocket of my jacket

to stick out my finger

and gesture for you to come near.

But yet you are so far away.

It is not fair.

“Come here,” says my finger,

“come right here.”

I take a step towards you.

Maybe you’ll see it now.

You look so hot

and I like how you kiss.

Your lips are like wet pillows

in a good way.

Come here, let’s collaborate on poetry,

let’s write a play about two lovers

who unbutton their shirts.

I wanna rehearse right now.

But you can’t not hear my call.

You do not see my finger.

If you saw my gesture,

I bet you would come running to me.

You would sprint.

You would gallop.

You would lose your breath.

I want to lose my breath

in the throes of passion with you

right here

on the floor of this gas station.