hops

i ask my father 
what beer tastes like.
he is sitting in the rocking chair
in the shadow room. 
window open. we watch dragons
come in & out. i prefer 
to stay awake. there is always
something to hide from.
he tells me, "it tastes 
like hops." points to the green
little plants depicted on the bottle.
i can see them growing up the side
of the house. ringing bells.
he takes me by the arm
& tells me to come with him.
we slip somehow 
into the mouth of the bottle.
everything smells amber. he is laughing
& then he is weeping. it rains hard.
so hard i cannot hear him.
i want to take it back. i wish i'd never
asked him. there are no windows
in the bottle. it just gets deeper
& deeper. smells like basement.
the hops fall. i chew one 
& swallow. a little bird grows 
in between my ribs. it sings.
it has a voice just like my father's.
i never find him there. i look 
for hours. the mouth closes up.
i decide i am going to pretend
to be a caterpillar. this, my cocoon. 
imagination can only save you
so much grief. eventually, it gives out
& you are standing on your porch
as an adult. there are hops
growing on a vine & you 
are picking them all to feed
to a ghost. you are wondering
if you remembered to climb out 
or if your whole life happened them
beneath a layer of thick glass.
you look up & there he is still.
your father with minnow-full eyes.
he blows a hot breath across
the lip. everything hums.