Grandma played the ponies
Or maybe the ponies played her.
Some lame, some short-lived,
some streaking past in a rare moment of victory.
You and me, sister-
little hostages under the stall’s plastic seats
dopey with orange juice spiked with vodka
our little livers working through it so slow-
or maybe the day was just long;
measured in warm liquorice and
Grandma’s grunts and cries.
Daddy liked to drink-
socially, antisocially,
Me asleep on his belly believing I was
keeping him safe
as his fractured breath moved beneath me;
his skin sweet with fermented sugar.
Sometimes he would cry and sometimes
he’d sing songs of his own childhood,
Unsteady// like a spinning top, dancing alone
In our living room.
I feel addiction in my blood,
Feel the call of the 5th, 6th, 7th drink;
The siren song of a far-off win,
The strained promise of oblivion…
But I don’t buy lottery tickets
I don’t sneak liquor into juice.
I wake up each morning and see
my child with fresh, sober eyes.
her bright, soft face making me want
more and more and more.
Katie Bowers
Summer Hill, NSW
