Carnaptious
was a favourite word
to describe him drunk
on whisky.
When he’d snap
you’d hear the lead crystal
clunk the table
and his palm would slap
the rhythm of his arguments out,
each syllable another nail
to bang,
to put the lid on doubt.
And later in the night,
as the liquid pulled
the upside-down menisci
of his lids,
and the last of the drink
slid down
and swilled in his gut
and pooled there, we kids
would hear the late
night news
berate him,
and we’d wait
to catch the light-switch click,
a match for the darkness
which would stick to our hearts
in stale silence.
Big Ape Diary 