Cynthia J. Hollenbeck

THE DRUMMER

            —thanks to Marie Howe
 
Praise to my older brother, sixteen-year-old man sequestered
in the attic, exiled namesake of my father, grown harsh
 
in his confinement, resigned to his evening task of pounding
the hell out of a drum set.  His cymbals gleamed beneath
 
a bare bulb and he was as hard as the drumsticks he held,
waved in the air like semaphore flags, thrown to the drums
 
with a crash.  Tower dweller, younger version of my father,
praise to the man who turned the other cheek to our step-mother’s
 
steely fist, beat the skins with so much force he was nearly deaf,
so when she stomped up the attic stairs, he never heard her pass
 
through the hallway before she hollered, Stop the fucking drumming!
He skulked to the spare room, lifted a Playboy from the stacks
 
and scanned its glossy pages, wondered who on the streets
might pay for girlie mags so he could, at the very least, eat. 
 
Not until the house went dark did my brother creep down
from his bedroom in the sky.  I know it pained him to knock
 
on my door and say good-bye—again.  And when he drew
his skinny arm around my shoulder, I wonder if he knew
 
I’d leave too if I weren’t so afraid—
 
Praise him—
whatever thrashed inside him made him go.

Location: Moscow, Idaho Occupation: Assistant to the Director of Catering at Best Western Email: chickenwings716@aol.com Publications: Talking River Review, Fugue, The Ledge, Stirring, etc.

- November 2004 - Lake Mungo 3 Masterpiece Without Deer The Drummer We Interrupt This Program... Pop off the climbing Merging Conflict