Visiting Elizabeth (ROUND 3)

Let's workshop this poem about a teenager going with his father on a supervised visit to see his sister

scent of the day: Murasakino, by aTon

First wear

Tremendous chype with Teatro Alla Scalla bombastic—Teatro all scala in the undeniably masculine form / Loud blinding civet opening with civet-reinforcing flowers / you see that the cumin is the big culprit of the animalic vibe but then, just as you think that Prin (and even Corticiatto with his Aziyade) has got this guy’s number, the blindness from the initial cloud clears and you see the civet is roaring / This is aggressive. / it is funny that Ramsey finds this less aggressive than Prin, but what is challenging will differ based on the person—because this vies with Homa and Arsalan for the most stomach churning of what I own

Visiting Elizabeth

The last time I saw my sister Elizabeth—two decades,
or more, gone now—was the last our dad ever would.
It was in Poughkeepsie, the same drab building where
he once sat across from me. That day we visited, under
the same cold eye of CPS, she was the age I had been.

Grandpa drove us up there from Beacon. My dad,
shaved and jittery, sat in the back—me cramped
on his lap. The fight against garbage bags toppling
with every bump, stench worsened by Grandma
and her lap yorkie, lent distraction to our nerves.

My dad said to drop us at a gas station. “There.
Yep. This one’s good. Need cigarettes,” he said.
But that was only half the story. He was off beer
and Grandma eyed us from the junkyard Mazda
as we exited the store, me cradling his brown bag. 

“Hey Mike!” Grandma yelled as we passed them.
I followed my dad’s lead, pretending not to hear. 
“You forgot the camera, the book!” I jogged back
through splatting slush for the disposable Kodak
and the coloring book with generic wax crayons.

My dad cracked the forty as we walked, downing
swigs of chin-dribbling desperation. Face shaved
for the big day, he looked to me for helping swigs.
For we were late. I scoffed in incredulous refusal,
city hall huge above us where we stood at a tree.

Who could he be, in his Newport cap, but himself? 
He asked me to hold the rest. My face the answer,
he fought. “You got baggy pants, boy.” But I knew
enough not to be in city hall, after metal detectors
and guards, fighting to keep my sloshing sweats up. 

Either the fantasy of the plan or thoughts of how
warmth and motion would ruin the beer had him
give up. Next to a park bench he buried it in snow.
To the eyes of a passing suit, no doubt smashed
by a wall of malt funk, I said, “Gotta keep it cool.”

Door guards patted us down. Me and my dad’s gazes
met. And his buckled right away. Still, I had to say it.
“See what I mean, Dad?” An elevator of more eyes,
then a fluorescent hall, took us to a visiting room—
Elizabeth walking in by the hand of a caseworker.

Beer smooches had Elizabeth hide below the table.
The worker looked me down, dressed like a thug—
her head shaking as if over the stink, the whole job.
“Liz Bean” soon got on my dad’s lap. I took photos
while she colored and shot me foreboding flirt eyes.  

Grandpa was curbside when we came out. He said
no to the park despite my dad’s “I dropped money.”
Perhaps hoping to fix what he never would, my dad
soon changed his tune: “I found it—other pocket.” 
For the trip he bought them their Win4 numbers.

* “Visiting Elizabeth” originally appeared in Flapperhouse (2016)