Alcoholics should never be called lushes.
Lush should be reserved
for carpeting so thick
that you can scrunch it with your toes.
Lush should be a jungle
Dripping with fronds and vines.
The haze of heat,
The smell of sweat.
Lush should be your lips.
Pressed to mine.
I remember him dancing at the bar.
Swirling, like one of his drink straws
Within the circle of his glass.
“Your father is a lush,” the bartender said.
But I thought he said fish.
And I laughed as only an eight year old could
Imagining him churning through the crowd.
Tossed by current and fate.
“My dad can’t swim,” I replied.
But I took him by the hand
And brought him home.
We sang sea shanties together on the way
Even though neither of us