father as ball and chain
by Clayton Walker
i park outside pearland
state prison, wait
for my father. for eight years
a crate of corn liquor
has rattled beneath the backseat.
i’m scared
if i pour it out, i’ll smell
my father: flammable,
fumed. winter 06', he left
his truck running
on the side of collins mill road
while he sat in the woods
with a loaded shotgun
just to see
if that brown boy who fished
“his” side of the river
would steal it. i park outside pearland
state prison, scared
to step out of the truck.
on the top of his right forearm
is a prison style portrait
of my mother. on his left,
adolf hitler. i’ve learned
that love will leave
two hundred dollars
on a commissary account,
respond to a letter,
but it will never
shake my father’s hand.