Carolina

London Gray

My father grew up shooting deer,

frying frog legs, stuffed face of grits and bacon,

the slow maneuver of love.

The bulging veins, like Carolina creek bends,

his lame leg dipped in a lake that that man drowned in last summer.

He floated on the surface of the water like a buoy. 

He tells me he could have been so much more.

I’m not sure if he means himself or the man who drowned,

his spongey fingertipped cry, which sounded like a birdcall.

Last night I dreamt he was a lifeguard

and that I was important enough to be wrapped in a towel 

after he pulled me out of the water.

My first kiss was with the barrel of his gun,

metaphorically

flush against my gums.

I hold my father by his shame,

He doesn’t bite.