Holding

by John Cullen

Parkinson’s hand, my uncle slurred
and shivered so badly no one understood.
After appointments, we circled
the lake to kidnap him from himself,
then back for dinner he could almost swallow.
On the ambulance ride to hospice he fumbled
his key so we could clear the last belongings.
Refusing treatment, he sipped drips,
and that last Sunday, sucked gin and tonic sponges
with hallucinations of service in the Pacific.
Watching my father, I wondered what he felt
as his brother faded. When he returned from the war,
his brother’s sign read “Here’s your ride home,”
a kid’s red wagon at his side.
The freeway curled. We counted exits
so as not to circle the city. I reminded my father
we needed to speak. Beyond the windshield,
I looked down the driveway, where the slider
to the garage door I’d pitched against as reliever
for the Twins stalled halfway open by a skirt of weeds.
Out the car, up the steps, he pulled the front door
closed without looking back.

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JOHN CULLEN graduated from SUNY Geneseo and worked in the entertainment business booking rock bands, a clown troupe, and an R-rated magician. Currently he teaches at Ferris State University in Michigan. He has had work published in American Journal of Poetry, The MacGuffin, Harpur Palate, North Dakota Quarterly, Cleaver, Pembroke Magazine, and New York Quarterly. His most recent chapbook, The Observation of Basic Matter, will be published in 2025 by Bass Clef Books.