Mr. Gill by Brit Blasingame

Over Grenache, she says a dead embryo but uses the word for the procedure, adding she’d like to see her dad a grandparent; this happened years ago and she’s aware

she hasn’t the word for lament⎯Her sister’s older, wants to do it

the right way, the right way, I say She means her sister wants

what she doesn’t. A wanted out of a relationship so she moved in

with her dad, had the happy fortune to be running late for work

when he fell in the shower,

when his eyes wouldn’t move and she couldn’t heave

a man’s man. Built. Blue collar, a mechanic’s shirt

the day he was drinking. I sat next to him, A brought me a beer, offering

no introductions, turning to other patrons

and we started gabbing. His head was shaved, eyes kind, ardent, face pleasant

never would’ve guessed he had the stroke He told me a story about a couple

at the bar last time he was at the Trophy⎯

Ever been here ‘round closing? he asked. I admitted, no

… the boyfriend, bellicose, drunk, had refused to leave. A called the police.

You wonder what goes through someone’s head, he said, reaching the part where

this guy gives it a row⎯cops hurry him away; the girlfriend, hissing at A, says cunt

and A snaps stepping up on a cooler,

up on the bar, grabbing this woman by the hair bringing

exit. We roared, and now, in the know, I can say his face was beaming.

A came back. He bought a round. When A returned with the bottles,

opening her Newcastle, she introduced me to her father.

She’s afraid of losing him.

She wants to see his loss revoked, not hers.

Hers isn’t loss.

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Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

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