The loon has four cries, he told me,
I wouldn’t touch the soup
playing a record so I could hear
that smelled of pee and unwashed hair.
the tremolo, the yodel,
He couldn’t hold his spoon,
the mournful wail across the still water.
the violent shaking of his hand
This was us talking. Us on the porch.
splattering the broth onto the vinyl tablecloth.
Him smoking his pipe,
No thank you, my young daughter whispered
me listening to his record.
when offered a roll,
Our chairs faced the lake,
all food untouched, a game show blaring.
a storm moving toward us,
I steadied his hand with my own.
wind and whitecaps.
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