bags of ice

my father bought home bags of ice
like newborns. cradled in the front seat
of his blue jeep. we would go
to greet the ice. watch as he broke 
the ice in by throwing it on to the pavement 
before pouring it into the blue chipped cooler.
summer was always for ritual.
watching the new sibling melt. seeing 
his body fill with brown bottles.
i used to wish i was a bag of ice. some kind
of release. at least at the end of the night
the ice was water & could be set free.
instead, i was a little moth flitting from
porch light to porch light. sitting
with my father & uncle as they smoked 
cigars & drank themselves into dizzy moons.
there would come a point when they would
turn into bullies. laugh at me & the dust
on my wings. banging my head 
against the glow. here i am, here i am
i would say. all the while, my new sibling
chilling their beverages. him, the favorite.
him, the perfect son. useful & brief.
inside the house i'd retire to watching
from the window. shower the smoke
from my skin. reach beneath my pillow
for a handful of my secret bubblegum.
deep in the night when i heard the house go silent.
only then would i go & witness 
the final dregs of the ice. i would go 
as a pilgrimage. cool night air.
i'd reach my hand in to the cooler
not minding the dirt of the bottles
& my father's hands. i would eat 
the half-melted ice. let it dissolve in my mouth.
a feast for an oldest child. the moths 
bought bells to ring. i put my finger
to my lips & begged them to hush. 
no one ever caught me.