toast

the windows are lined with people
and my mother's former co-worker pam
is wailing and drunk in the wings.

i'm holding lynn's hand and grabbing a beer
from the brown card-table we've set up in the backyard.

we've gone through $400 of beer wine and liquor so far this afternoon.

i toss lynn's hand to the sky and step inside
through the oak stained door
and it snaps shut behind me.

every eye is on me now:
in the hallway,
a broken thing,
not yet old.

her coat is still strapped to the rack by my head.

i maneuver through the crowd,
dodge the chandelier in the front hallway,
and i'm through the house,
back outside and on display for the neighborhood.

falling to the ground and laughing,
along with and coaxing along the smiles and chuckles
of the spectators and friends surrounding me on the lawn,
i watch my mom's former co-worker pam,
crying and screaming, get booted from the party.

drunk as all hell. too drunk.

as she speads away down the tree-lined, sunny street,
i roll toward my brother and bite his leg hard,

the taste of his sweat and my tears like molasses on my tongue.