The last time I ever snapped the cap off a bottle of whiskey
I smelled your breath the night you kissed me on the mouth.

I tried to apologize for never being the son you needed,
for all those nights my fist swung at your swollen jaw.

We never meant to drink. We fell into reminiscing at the kitchen table.
Once you forgave me, you pulled your secret whiskey to your lips.

Each shot made the next one easier. We passed the plastic bottle
back and forth, sharing what you gave me: shots, sips, and spit.

My hands were so sweaty I couldn’t open the fireball nip we found
in the back of our tea cabinet. I pried it open with my crooked teeth.

I wish I could remember what happened after. I’ve always thought of that night
as a return to the thirst you gave me, a return to our need. A burning throat.

I never got the chance to explain my rage. I never got to tell you
it was your daughter who was swinging her fists in your face.

Three months later I held your yellowed hand. I delivered my birth
name into your ear. The last thing I saw was you opening your mouth.