My stepfather laces his fingers together
and stares at the ceiling as if waiting for
the faded carved initials, military symbols, and dates to heal
revealing tender cherry wood that crowns the Eagle pub
revealing the American servicemen of World War II
revealing my stepfather as a young student of Queens College before years of work, wives, and children.
I drown in my house cider,
feeling more and more like a little girl
peeking into his library, treading on a daddydaughter’s relationship
he sweeps his eyes across the fresco of masculine intentional indentions
down the windows down to his pint, exhales, and says
“To think that these American airmen didn’t know they were in here for their last drinks.”
And his eyes water, but tears don’t run down his face.
I cider myself again, the tart taste roofing in my mouth,
and I think that I don’t want to share him with his real children
and I want to have another round with him.
