We’ve been driving for hours
my father and I
through reservation farmland
talking the old stories:
Stubby Ford; Lana Turner
at the National Boy Scout Jamboree
my father pissing in a hole he dug
while his troop formed a circle
around him and Lana Turner drove by
breaking every boy’s heart.
He told me old drunk stories
about the gallon of vodka a day
the DTs, snakes
falling out of the walls.
We watched two farm boys shooting baskets.
Lean and hungry
they were “suicidally beautiful.” “Jesus,”
my father said,”I played ball like that.”
I looked into the sun and tears fell
without shame or honor. We got out of the car
in our basketball shoes. My father’s belly
two hundred winter beers wide
and I’ve never been more afraid
of the fear in any man’s eyes.