The Nelligan Review

They called me ‘Roadhouse.’
This harrowed heart cowed
whiskey-fueled men, made one

give me the Craftsman claw
hammer he wielded against
the chipped load-bearing column

of a party house basement—
as if he could conquer his cell
memory of empire with enough

Johnnie Walker and brute force.
His brothers called me, frantic,
to bring my handle of Heaven

Hill vodka, my lighter, my blood
back when it was fast and hot
and happy to rush red to my chest.

They begged me to march myself
past the ring of them to confront
the misbehaving minotaur

at their center. They said he would
kill someone someday. They thought
it would be me. His name was Justin

and he gentled like a good horse
at my voice, all six foot four and
flashing black eyes of him. He laid

that hammer softly, so softly into
my hand, handle first, like a rose.
For months after that, I woke

every Sunday to his toothy grin
in a chair at the foot of my bed
despite the deadbolt on my dorm room

door. Who tells a devoted dog No?
He faced away when I slipped nude
from bed, walked me to breakfast,

watched me eat with placid eyes, right
hand always on his knife. He burned
a CD with “Arthur’s Song” on it,

placed it on my pillow. That was
before these gnarled hands stopped
obeying my commands, before

my rogue spine fused. He married
a soft, small, blonde woman
who preferred housecats as pets.