C.L. Bledsoe

The aunts called to ask why Dad’s truck
was sitting in the road, twenty-five yards

from the house, door open. My brother
and I found him, drunk in a grass wallow.

A trail led up to the rusted, mostly black door
where he’d crawled back to get the rest

of his muscadine wine. We dragged him
to the truck, coasted down to the house,

and dumped him in bed. The aunts
began to appear hours later with casseroles,

desserts, accusations. When they left,
it was quiet. He slept and we ate our fill.

Return to Spring 2016 Table of Contents