Ben Sloan

Safety strap cinched diagonally across his chest,
head lolling sideways, eyes shut, the picture here
is of someone in a deep alcohol-induced sleep.
Naresh, from Nepal and living in St. Louis, has never seen
nor had any basis for even imagining his teenage son like this.

His son’s friend and friend’s father have taken Naresh out
to their van where he now stands beside the open passenger door,
peering inside. The other father, a Marine, unbuckles, lifts,
and carries the limp body over his shoulder into the house,
gently placing it on a sofa. Stepping back and frowning down
at his own son, pausing for effect, in a stage whisper he says,
Open your eyes. Learn a lesson. Take care of friends. Always.

Watching this play out, Naresh recalls earlier in the day
seeing his son leave to “hang out” with pals. Knowing what he now
knows, the next easy/hard move is to sit down beside his son
and experience with him the shadowy basement rec room,
the bottle, the enlivened eyes, the clinking glasses, the laughter.

He understands the situation calls for him to display anger.
Despite this, he feels himself in the presence of a brave explorer
who has embarked on a perilous journey down a jungle-choked river.

After all is finished, after his son gets up in the middle of the night
to vomit, as no doubt will happen, Naresh will look forward
to going into his room tomorrow to welcome him home.

Ben Sloan's poems have previously appeared—or are forthcoming in—The Tishman Review, Pembroke Magazine, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Natural Bridge, and the Northampton Poetry Review. He teaches at Piedmont Virginia Community College, the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women, and Buckingham Correctional Center. A poetry chapbook of his, The Road Home, is available from Thirty West Publishing House (2017). He lives in Charlottesville, Virginia.

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