The Omission of Bestiality
J. Quinn Brisben
Mama was dying and making
More farewell appearances than
Buffalo Bill, the cancer spreading,
Nothing effective to be done for pain,
But not letting down the side at
University Place Christian Church,
Whose new young pastor touted
The nude antiwar pro-pot rockfest
Hair, so when my parents came
One more time to Chicago
I got tickets, expensive ones,
For Mama could not handle stairs
Anymore, and we watched attentive
But unmoved, for the music was
Neither mine nor theirs, and the dope
Was not working for our local hurts.
At intermission Dad indulged his
Passe vice of smoking tobacco and
Quizzed me about the “Sodomy” song:
“Which one of those big words means
Diddling the livestock?” he asked,
Thumb hooked in gallus, looking country.
I said “They haven’t heard of that
Up here yet,” and he coughed and laughed.
Then he asked “Are you all right? Is this what
You really want? Teaching colored people and
Living among them?” I said yes and thought:
I am as old now as he had been when he
Raised welts on my butt and damned near
Cauliflowered an ear because I was reading
Instead of lawn mowing or suchlike.
We both enjoyed good marriages and
Lived well without sweat but raged
Out of control too often and clashed
When we were too long together, for
We hated the reflections we saw when
We observed each other’s faces. Inhaling,
He said “I’m told they strip down
Before this is over.” “In a dim light,”
I said, and he said “Your mother will
Lean to me and whisper “If you’ve
Seen one you’ve seen ‘em all.”
I knew he was right and laughed.
It was our last good moment.
He picked the first quarrel he could
After Mama died, and I never saw
His face for the seventeen years
He lived on. This hurt and still does,
But maybe less than I might have
Hurt him without meaning to. His face
Faded and became in my dreams
John Wayne, deposed from his cattle herd,
Stalking me, but the night I heard
He had died, I dreamed of him staying
In my hospital room when I had
My tonsils out, and that was good.
