Uncle Grady was a was a wannabe badass
but Aunt Velma jinxed his dreams
with scriptures out loud at every sit-down
meal. To escape he’d take weekend
fishing jaunts to Eva Harbor, steer
his Bubble Top Eliminator
on the Tennessee River where
he’d rant, Let’s cook the shit out
of this ugly bottom feeder. On weekends
he bolted himself in the outbuilding
& built fishing lures with paper
clips, a chunk of deer antler or empty
rifle casing. I found a tattered
Playboy & a charcoal nude
under a stack of towels in the half
bath, a spot Velma never cleaned. VietNam
sucked him up. I knew about the pint
of Absolut stuffed in his tackle box. Once,
when Velma drove to her cousin’s in Tupelo
he liquored up. That night he dropped
to his knees bellowing, Not one damn thing
can bring those burning bodies back.  Sometimes
he’d look through me like I wasn’t there.