CW: alcoholism
When I was a little girl I thought my dad was a sailor
always gone because he was chasing the horizon
I thought him to be a captain
shaking salt water out of his long hair
laughing into the sky with seagulls
bobbing along in a ship
surrounded by mates who
held sunshine in their lungs too
They gave each other silly nicknames
because that’s what sailors did of course
and all of them were fathers
to children like me
waiting impatiently at the front door
with wonder in their eyes
but my dad didn’t think much of myths
as it turns out the docks were a place for men
with no melody in their hearts nor heart
in their words no word they will keep men
who were born from generations of barnacles
clinging to a pier of the only place they’ve ever known men
who have oil in their veins and roam the earth
with open wounds staining everything they leave behind men
who walk on the ceilings of their homes
shadowing each of their wives’ steps below them
men
who
drink
men
who
drink
men
who
drink
men
who
drink
men
who kiss their children’s foreheads while they are sound asleep
but leave a draft in the room that will drown them for years when
I was a little girl I thought my dad was a sailor
I was too young to see he was a ship in the night and
I was no lighthouse
my mom was no lighthouse
my siblings a family a home
were no lighthouse
always gone because he was chasing the horizon
I thought him to be a captain
shaking salt water out of his long hair
laughing into the sky with seagulls
bobbing along in a ship
surrounded by mates who
held sunshine in their lungs too
They gave each other silly nicknames
because that’s what sailors did of course
and all of them were fathers
to children like me
waiting impatiently at the front door
with wonder in their eyes
but my dad didn’t think much of myths
as it turns out the docks were a place for men
with no melody in their hearts nor heart
in their words no word they will keep men
who were born from generations of barnacles
clinging to a pier of the only place they’ve ever known men
who have oil in their veins and roam the earth
with open wounds staining everything they leave behind men
who walk on the ceilings of their homes
shadowing each of their wives’ steps below them
men
who
drink
men
who
drink
men
who
drink
men
who
drink
men
who kiss their children’s foreheads while they are sound asleep
but leave a draft in the room that will drown them for years when
I was a little girl I thought my dad was a sailor
I was too young to see he was a ship in the night and
I was no lighthouse
my mom was no lighthouse
my siblings a family a home
were no lighthouse
Angel Leyba is a queer, Latina writer and creative from South Bay San Diego currently located in the Bay Area. They are the Managing Editor at Berkeley Poetry Review and a Reader at Frontier Poetry. Her words have appeared in City Works Literary Journal and Soft Quarterly. Find them on Twitter @xspacebar.