Budweiser

The bottle cracks open again,

the lid pops up and a world of sin 

reappears.

The bottle meant more than just a container for 

evil,

but years of destruction in its past.

As a child I’d yearned for I love you to never mean I’m above you,

that you were a man of God,

that didn’t spare the rod,

to protect me from foolishness.

Each cigarette burned,

the ash representing how I felt

when I watched you destroy your body,

to preach to your clients and friends to seem more godly.

The ash being tossed to Earth,

like how you threw your worth,

the smell of smoke,

would make me choke,

on the tobacco of death,

the smell stuck on your breath,

and clothes as you re-entered our broken home.

—

Coping,

Coping,

Coping—

with the ramifications of mother’s loss,

the house that cost, the kids that were lost,

Who could blame you?

I look at you with love, 

that could only come from 

above,

but when you crack open the Budweiser—

I wish you were wiser.

You tell me 

stories, 

Stories, 

Stories— 

of defeat,

that you stood at the 

feet of the 

bottle of shortcoming,

that you did the 

unthinkable,

things that were 

unspeakable,

that you changed as a man the day you dropped the sin,

but then you picked it back up like you could never win.

I always gave you the benefit of the doubt because of the stress,

but the spirit of Lucifer would never be put to 

rest,

you’d impress into me the image of make-believe,

that you were a changed man,

you take the hand of God and blacken it with the liquid of drunkenness.

Each sip makes you more 

Confident,

Confident—

more confident in the fact that life has to be this way,

that your kids would never stay—

they love their mom more than you,

that they don’t know how it feels to walk a mile in your shoes,

but you have no clue,

of how it feels to watch the man of the house abuse his spouse,

then show up on Sunday and 

project his louse,

of the invasion of wickedness,

the occasion of oppression,

stressing that you were the head,

while inflicting pain unto those who were fed,

the lies of pride,

impressing the bud of a cigarette on the

 face of light.

A vision of you, 

showing up drunk,

before a family vacation in which you stunk,

of the smell of Bud.

As we rode to the airport,

you bloat your shortcoming,

and when we arrived you sparked a rage inside,

that when I looked at you I’d thought that the devil had derived—

from the bottle of stupidity,

evil in the vicinity.

As we passed through the terminal,

you’d fallen flat on your face,

the space felt loud, like eyes were burning on the back of my head,

it made me wish you would’ve stayed at home and gotten a stead,

soon we lead,

to a terminal to a brighter place,

but you needed your fix so you removed yourself from the space,

to light up a bud,

not a bottle but a stick of peace,

that would put your mind at ease.

Minutes went by, and you never arrived,

despite the fact we boarded the flight,

you were nowhere in sight,

pure fright that you’d wasted your money,

more precious than me,

and that you’d missed your shot at getting a glance of the sea—

the words you texted me were “I missed my flight”,

and I felt nothing but spite.

—

I call back to when we boarded the cruise,

and instead of precious family time,

you found it more important,

to sit with drunkenness.

Excursion after excursion and you wanted to stay,

reminiscent of that 4-year-old boy who just wanted to play,

but was towered by a shadow of reverence that would 

overcast my day.

—

But what I learned that day is that nobody is perfect,

it could never excuse your actions,

but the faction between us held strong like the ocean beneath us,

reminding me of my mother who called me her little genius.

My heart dropped and felt for you because no matter how 

hard I tried I’d be just like you,

my heart filled with anger, my heart blackened with rage,

and although you’d been a fool you still maintained sage,

and allowed me to fill my pages with poems about you,

because no matter how hard I’d tried, 

I’d always filled your shoes,

and become just like you.

I don’t hate you,

I hate the bottles of Budweiser that stack up to remind me of your past,

I don’t hate you, 

I hate the burning of the bodies of death,

the buds of cancer, the ash of the stick,

I don’t hate you, 

I hate that it had to be this way,

that the kids and I couldn’t just stay,

but had to move away to a place that was safe.

I don’t hate you, 

I hate myself,

for being more like you than you would ever know,

and exuding rage that to me you’d always show,

I don’t hate you, 

I love you despite all that happened

because you showed me that my love should be the opposite of how coarse yours felt,

to choose tenderness 

           over reverence,

to choose tranquility over the ability to hurt,

and most importantly to choose love,

no matter the source because throughout life’s course

you remain the main event I will always remember.

I love you, 

I love you,

I love you more than you love the bottle of vice,

more than you love the wad of cash in your pocket,

more than the green and white pack of sin you carry,

and I love you more than you would ever know,

because the cycle of shortcoming makes it hard to show,

that I love you always,

whether rain or snow,

or anything that stands in the way of my heart’s glow.

copyright © micah hill 2024