Poem – Wanderers

Wanderers

Looking for a place to settle
my Father walked me
     between the tracks
leading to the next town, our town
with a different name, familiar enough.

Trains push air under dust,
it is so dry, our breathing;
like eating dirt
from the earth.
It’s a drought, he says,
not looking at me.

Our destination
     is not visible
curves hide
          what we’re looking for
we see buildings
                        above treetops

Later,
Father pours Tennessee whiskey
     from his flask
onto my bee sting, Russian vodka
     into my shot glass;
we bond that way
          desecrating our bodies.

My Father talked
into the night,
     our loose rhetoric.
His stories’ morals
     I can’t live with
his heroes
               suffering
          less than he has.

I mumble his words to my wife,
     not verbatim,
          and in English;
I don’t remember exactly what he said.
My artificial intelligence,
     resident of a child’s closet,
remains untouched, unblemished.

-Xiong