Shanna Germain
My Dad Says Yes to the Drugs

Between trips carrying live honeybees from
Mass. to Mich., my dad's driving arm goes
quiet as his CB radio on
a 2 a.m. run. The rest of him
humming like honeybees caught in the wipers.

The docs say too much, too many, these
hidden sacs of sweet high, cargo holds on
overload, spilling their honey in the
roadways of his veins. From the outside,
he looks like he's always looked. Maybe grayer.

But not as gray as the pills, little lint
balls plucked from the prescription of shortened
futures. Stethoscope to his eyes, tongue
depressed by double high-beams and there is
his son to consider. Hey, hey, good buddy.

Only after the needle. Before that,
there is his time-salted beard shaking over the blue
plate of his gown, my reach for his quiet hand,
his voice sending breaker, breaker
over the still, dead air.