by Gustavo Adolfo Aybar
1.
The man who raised me died
of Cirrhosis of the liver. For Jack,
drinking rum was a sacrament,
like eating the body and swallowing
the blood of Christ. Blessed be the yeast,
the water, the oak barrel. Holy the clove spice,
the cassia bark. Holy the bottle, the glass, the ice.
Praise the bent arm, the fingers and hands,
the firm grip, the mouth open in prayer,
the sip, the harsh burn.
Amen
2.
His death, a rum glass he sipped
during those long bedridden years. His spirit
wandering the white beaches
of the Costa Rican shoreline. The rolling
waves burying his feet deep in the sand.
The crisp sun on his skin.
His brain inciting an insurrection
My sister played Sinatra’s
I Did It My Way at hospice.
I saw his arms flail under the blanket
as if dancing the Watusi.
3.
The day he died I was on my way
to the station to take the polygraph.
What else is left, he told me once.
When you cant fuck anymore?
After you’ve seen Frank and Sammy Davis Jr.,
Marylin Monroe, and Kennedy’s assassination,
—Martin’s.
I’ve seen it all, he said.
I’m ready to hang it up kid.
