A Dad Who Never Sleeps
Any given night, the cops could knock with the news.
I never know where you are. I know you get high.
I keep thinking about the short video you texted me the other day:
you with your abominable snow friends running around an abandoned hospital,
guffawing at the moon.
And I’ve glimpsed the knife you carry—
the type they sell at gas stations,
a much weaker steel than handcuffs,
shaped like
“I’m gonna kill you,”
but it can’t cut through a bullet
or an overdose,
rape, HIV or hepatitis.
It can’t whittle a word of advice that could save you from yourself
or slice up the demons that fight us both
for a thousand and six nights and counting.
You were five when you were baptized.
I was in the water with you.
My hand was on your shoulder
as you agreed to live forever
and the preacher dipped and raised you up dripping with light.
Had I known then what my nights would be like now,
I would’ve gone under too,
and stayed under
till I fell asleep.
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Jordan Tate 