By Rodd Whelpley

His mom and I are slow to form attachments. 
(We have met your kind before—juniper  
on pulse points, malt-conditioned hair.) But if  
you are his last last drink, then welcome  
to the family.
                         We’ll receive your gifts
beneath the tree, set white meat on your plate.
There will be no politics at dinner, and
I’ll fight to forget you as the Danube—
a frothy current pushing those swan-boat
kill-me pills across his lips, which landed,
by grace, hapless,
                                  like a drift of cygnets
tickling his gut. If you swear you are
his last last drink, then I will pay a cantor
and a priest. Father you, as I have failed
to father him. Take you at the elbow.
wedding march you as my dire daughter,
and let him lift the veil. 

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Rodd Whelpley manages an electric efficiency program for 32 cities across Illinois and lives near Springfield. His poems have appeared in numerous journals. His chapbooks include Catch as Kitsch Can (2018, Prolific Press), The Last Bridge is Home (2021, Kelsay Books) and Whoever Said Love (2022, ELJ Editions). His first full-length collection is Blood Moon, Backyard Mountain (2023, Broadstone Books). Find him at www.RoddWhelpley.com.