Somehow it always begins
with cans of beer, stranded

in the dirt. They’re littered
with buckshot. Exit wounds

splayed open like orchids dipped
in chrome. That’s how I know

he’s wintering it out again—
truck bed sunk under a heap

of Heinekens. These piles of
husks. Usually, he’s still asleep

when I find him. I tiptoe
through his shack, choke out

the left-on stove. Often, I’ll trip
on the rug. He wakes, I freeze up—

I tell him he’s still dreaming
and shush him back to sleep

before I leave. Lately, I catch
him awake, rifling through

his things—a searing pain
lodged firm behind his skull.

He’s standing there again—
slumped over the sink, face

cradled in rough palms. I look
away. I hate to see the lumps:

two slowly forming bruises.
I never want to see the burst,

his peeled-back skin, the drop
of hands as he watches himself

in the dim-lit cabinet mirror—
his reflection sprouting antlers.