My father started the road trip Like any, with a bang, harsh words Where are my fucking keys bitch? Suddenly I regretted living, Wondered why I hadn’t Dropped off the face of the earth Before he soured. I drove out of The arching woods towards north Two hours late. In Georgia he spoke Of Talladega like the Parthenon. My father wants to join NASCAR In my '97 Camry but he drives Carefully. When I was a kid he’d Buy beers from the corner store And drink them on the way home. His beer cost less than a dollar. He didn’t drink when we crossed The Virginia state line, bought snow tires, Meandered down the highway to the local Chipotle and grabbed a bite while waiting I bought headphones at Ross– I don’t remember what he got. I remembered his drinking stories Where he careened his Iroc into The creek after chugging whiskey. In Massachusetts he told me his Father beat the shit out of him Regularly. I felt deep pity and Bitterness. My father was never By my side. In Boston we said Goodbye; in the summer he Was arrested. I remembered his Earlier absences and wondered What was worse.
Originally from Mississippi, M. Creel (they/he/she) is a genderfucked poet studying and working as an MFA candidate at the University of Massachusetts - Boston. His work is in, or forthcoming in, The Winnow Magazine, Best Buds Collective COVID-19 Relief Anthology, TWANG Anthology, Poke, Rejection Letters, petrichor, Mineral Lit Mag, and ang(st), among others.