My
father
was
bearded
and
zoned out
on
psychiatric medication
he
could not pronounce
behind
the glass from us
in
county jail,
where
he awaited trial.
He
and my mother
argued
over
why
he did what he did
until
he could only
slur
insane gibberish.
The
guards treated us
so
much like shit
we
could still smell it
on
the drive home,
when
we both agreed
never
to visit my father
in
jail or prison again.
Neither
of my parents
were
there when I got
locked
up in the same
madhouse
that swallowed
my
father whole,
but
it choked on me
and
spit me out
in
a demented miracle
no
one prayed for but me.
Kevin Ridgeway is the author of Too Young to Know (Stubborn Mule Press) and nine chapbooks of poetry including Grandma Goes to Rehab (Analog Submission Press, UK). His work can recently be found in Slipstream, Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, Plainsongs, San Pedro River Review, The Cape Rock, Trailer Park Quarterly, Main Street Rag, Cultural Weekly and The American Journal of Poetry, among others. He lives and writes in Long Beach, CA.
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