[James Brancheau]

Takeaway

There he was, an explorer lost
and small, stranded on an island

in the gloss of the empty mall
beside our stained paper bags

of food, and on his lap a sample
of the local flora—a plastic potted

plant forever coming into bloom
that he’d plucked from beneath

the feet of dragons in the Chinese
restaurant’s lantern heaven

of a waiting room. He looked beyond
us, like a child bracing to absorb

the end of a lesson, and slurred
the same as when he called—I’m all

messed up. So foreign to laugh
at no-nonsense dad, his quiet,

controlled self now loud and dizzy
and numb—for once he’d lost his

head and did something dumb.
So alien to be more acquainted

with this than him, more intimately
know the speed the Earth spins,

the trick to riding each rising wave,
how to let go and let the bar floor

stick—to drink yourself to a high
tolerance, be a good witness

to your own demise. Repeatedly,
annoyingly, he stumbled with his

apologies—and never did catch wind
of how much I’d chug, my prowess

for drinking, nor did I have a hint
of how young and fast he could die,

a few steps down the straight walk
of time, like it was nobody’s business.