His father cracked an ice tray in the sink and poured
another shot of vodka, kitchen table orange as lava,
placemats sticky, curtains snapping in the breeze.
I was twelve, my friend fourteen.
He tucked his hair behind his ears, which pulsed with red.
His father swayed, then slammed our glasses
on the table: Drink your milk. I looked away, inhaled
the scent of cigarettes and hickory sauce, and caught
the glance my young friend snuck me, prisoner smarter
than his guard. The big drunk lurched, and we both
twitched. He thrust his arm across our plates—it grazed
my face. He shoved the glass, a muzzle now,
on my friend’s mouth. Milk draped his chin. I chewed
my burger, wearily. My friend reached out
with shaking hands, to take the almost-empty cup.
I sipped from mine, to ease his shame.
