Chad Parenteau

Photo by Su Red

My Father Defies Death to Write Me A Letter 35
Years Later Whether or Not I Made It Past 64

Did you ever figure out

why you picked up cigarettes

at my apartments

by the slum house,

its jungle lawn catching

garbage tossed from windows?

Do you know I gave haven

in the state I would bite back

in the town I didn’t even want you

to marry into? Did you surmise

I was teaching you

to squeeze stone from stone

to make blood?

You wouldn’t be first to beg God

for blasphemies.

Do you think I’d chose

my dream house in Cambridge,

or even Franklin,

half-a-college town? It was Bellingham,

Massachusetts for Peter’s sake.

The town’s motto:

“Not The Bellingham in Washington.”

Why choose there for

my wife's museum quality home

where the police stop by

to share wine on our deck

and give confession.

Admit it.

You thought about my tenants

my driveway with cigarette butts

I sent you to pick up

the day you threw out

the heavy-breathing poets in your audience,

mummy-shuffling to compete

for a woman’s knee. And your jobs,

your causes.

How many years did you spend

in position, running to from toppling

Roman-style columns

before you could stop

running,

before

pride gasped, This will hold.

Psst.

Remember the car crash I survived,

the self-made compact they pried me from,

the newspaper report I kept closer to my heart

than any campaign clipping. Have you learned it

yet

about our family?

We're promoted to captains in our first shitstorm,

amidst gossip, people have been fitting

you for straightjackets and coffins

since junior high. Make these your hulls

and sails, pirate them

to ride your own.