13 December 2009 | Vol. 9, No. 4

Stillwell, Oklahoma

by JOHNATHON WILLIAMS

I pull a dog tick fat as a blueberry

from the small of my brother's back,

watch it roll, blood drunk

in the cup of my palm.

We've only been here an hour.

You can see the Indian

in my father's other family.

He's a quarter. They say

his first wife was half. Outside,

dust slaps open-handed

against this clapboard house. I taste it

in the Kool-Aid, more grit than sugar:

irritating, insoluble. There's talk

of the forecast—thunderstorms, tornadoes—

as my mother ushers us to the car.

Soon we'll stop at the state line,

gummy bears and gas and a sign

for $3 half pints of bourbon.

Sober six years, he'll stare,

my father, brood open-mouthed

until my mother pulls him away.

For now he kneels on the porch, alone

in the sepia light, and tucks an envelope

beneath the propane tank without a word.