The Dad

Brian Clifton

Brian Clifton has work in: Pleiades, Guernica, Cincinnati Review, Salt Hill, Colorado Review, The Journal, Beloit Poetry Journal, and other magazines. They are an avid record collector and curator of curiosities.

In a grocery store, the dad holds his son’s head together.
A hand under the chin and the other covering the crown,

                            he applies pressure; he feels his son’s teeth shatter
the coffee bean he dropped into his mouth like a pill. His son swallows.

His son vibrates down the aisle. The dad follows. He waffles before a wall of cereal.

His son talks to another man, also called dad. The dads
                           exchange looks. They both reach out to clasp
the other’s outstretched hand. Another dad turns the corner. He nods.

At home, one dad thumps a tire with his heavy lug wrench. One dad tells his son to get back

in the house, or else. One dad brings a pile of smoldering leaves to his face
and inhales. The dads ask each other unremarkable questions. Does being

a dad change you? Being a dad changes you. Sure, somewhere
                            a mother. Sure, a large sheet fits across their large mattress.
The dads undulate with breath. They share a single body. They come together,

then they split. They come together again. Their bed rocks. They respond
to a text from the mother. Sure, they type. The message flies. The message stays in place.

Issue 10.1