To The White ’95 Dakota Sport My Sister’s Father Used to Drive
By Molly Stadler
When you were there
Parked haphazardly, not quite between the lines
On the blacktop of the Meijer parking lot
It meant he was there
Sitting in your driver’s seat, staring at us through
Your windshield
I can still see you
And the colorful faces
On the slab of wood my grandfather painted
Zip-Tied to your grill
And caught between headlights
I remember you
Outside my second home
Beside the neighbor— his friend’s house
Whose music blared when it got dark; and in front of
The tiki torches he insisted to buy which
Eventually caught fire sometime
Late at night
You meant trouble in my six year old mind
You were idle
On the pavement
Waiting outside his work while
We came to visit him
And you stood still as voices grew
Icy, harsh, loud
And palms slammed against windows before
He jumped on the hood of my
Mom’s car as
We tried to drive away
You lounged in the shade
Underneath the mulberry tree
At the third house
Watching through the little window on the door
As he shoved my mother down the stairs
My sisters and I crying as she stood up, and
Rushed us to the bathroom
Locking the door behind her before
He started beating on it
You froze
Like a scratched DVD
While he became some sort of animal
Climbing up the terrace of the 4th home
And trying to break in
While my sisters and I huddled together
Locked in my room, listening
To my mother’s screaming
And you never
Hit the gas to crash—
To run him over, no
You just watched.
Like a child on Saturday morning