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Poem

I still remember my childhood being poured out of me slowly
I was 7 or 8 when I experienced my grandfather suffer.
He choked to death on his vomit (died the next day in ICU)
My father never recovered, he became an alcoholic, too.
He started driving us around town most nights
Blaring Tejano Cumbias to help him cope
I’d trace the foothill Mountains from my window 
Trying to distract myself from his inability to stay in his lane.
One night, Pete Astudio sang Como Te Extrano 
And my father couldn’t help but finish the quart of vodka left in his bottle
Distracted by the foothills, I didn’t see it happen, but I felt the tiny body lift the car, 
the front wheel then the back. My father swerved too late. I begged him to stop, 
but he kept going. I saw the dog slowly crawl till it collapsed on the side of the street.
I wish I could say I stopped tracing the Foothills after that night, or how
I wondered about the moonshine always teetering on the edge of the counter 
Or how I didn’t think anyone would notice. (That’s how it started.)
because alcoholics look like regular people when they take their first drink.
They say I have my father’s eyes… and his hands. 
My hands relentlessly remind me of who I really am.
His hands tremble worse (he never traced mountains.).
The glassy eyes give him away. My father never warned me that I was born an alcoholic.

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