Nursing our addictions

When I was twelve & after
a smoke my father
would put on the only zombie
movie we owned, for relaxation.

The main character was a girl
dark kinky hair like mine. Twelve
like me, just like me:
bloodied, missing body
parts. I watched

him, eyes staring
intently at the screen,
the bulge in his briefs, his hands
that beat me just a moment before
clenched around godknowswhat.

I would imagine my father
struggling underground
somewhere, his hands too blunt
to dig, his legs too weak.

I would imagine him roaming
around a city empty of me. Anywhere but
here on this couch, both of us
nursing our addictions & our freedom
to dream until a tap and he says wake up, come

with me. We’re all in
a movie, anyway. We’re all coming
out of the ground, anyway.

Header photograph © C.S. Young Jr.