Thistle Grip
because my mother couldn’t hold on
i learned to grasp too tight.
in each relationship,
she would slander the other,
accuse him of stepping out
behind her back.
lamps would dent the trailer
walls. brown bottle shards
in bare feet.
forcing my father
to sleep
in the car.
i’m sure it was much
more peaceful there.
as i got older
i was always confused
why the women i loved
would leave or cheat.
40: Navy Blue
I remember the tux my father was wearing in his casket. Navy blue was his favorite color. In what I thought was his suicide note, written in navy ink, to my son Jeremy, I leave my Geo-Storm. Who leaves a car to a twelve-year-old? It was on its last legs. Do cars have legs? Four of them? I never even drove it. I guess it’s the thought that counts, but I would have rather my father thought less of his violent cerulean depression and lived long enough to teach me how to drive. The azure paint job was consumed by amber more and more each winter he was away from me. I think about what it would look like now. Are the headlights jutting out like eyes looking for me? Has it been crushed and squarified in the car graveyard? Sometimes, I wonder if its lingering paint still matches my father’s suit.
Car Photo by Nikolai Justesen
Jeremy Daugherty is an Appalachian writer, born and raised, currently serving as an adjunct professor at Miami University, where he also earned his MFA in Poetry. His work often delves into themes of family, addiction, and personal guilt.
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