"Split Ending" by Edward Lee
Jaye Chen | The Last Party
Someone drove my Dad home tonight–
I brought him in, and Mom locked the door.
I have never seen Dad this drunk; I have never
been drunk before. “That’s the–” he tried to speak
but his lips were dunes; he knelt by me and fell to the floor.
“–After this, I’m done.
That’s the last time I’ll ever be this drunk.
I am forty-nine, and my daughter’s grown.
I told all of them, last one, no more, no more–
“And all my oldest friends were there,
the cop, the judge, the teacher; the businessman.
The cop sang Karaoke with me, like in junior high
and the teacher said, man, you still got your voice!
I won over your Mom with my singing, you know?
All night the judge sat idly with his second wife
besides the businessman. It’s been a decade since we met.”
And though he was glowing sunwards, orange and red, I thought he’d die in the instant.
I’ve always hated sticky goodbyes, turning back at the door, around the porch, the nightwind.
Most days my parents raised knives, carved scars, drew blood; never drunk nor impatient.
Instead, it was how evil the world, how friends were only polite, like bouquets of false daisies
I don’t know if Dad kept his promise.
Last I saw him, he was curt and coarse.
I don’t know if I’ll go home this year.
I’ve always hated sticky goodbyes.
I live in a city with all my oldest friends–
the cynic, the radical, the writer, the bassist.
They are now names instead of faces to me.
I haven’t seen anybody I’ve known for a long time.
And I am sending voice-notes en masse, in the winter morning. Won’t you come by this weekend?
–For a cold dinner? There are no knives in my house anymore. I’m sorry, I am, a thousand times
–If you come by, I’ll clean up all the boxes around my ankles, make you a bed for the night.
I’ll buy a bottle of wine, wear something I don’t get to wear at work. And you don’t have to wait
for me to be home. The front gate is open, I’ve never locked it. I wish you’d burn down the door
I brought him in, and Mom locked the door.
I have never seen Dad this drunk; I have never
been drunk before. “That’s the–” he tried to speak
but his lips were dunes; he knelt by me and fell to the floor.
“–After this, I’m done.
That’s the last time I’ll ever be this drunk.
I am forty-nine, and my daughter’s grown.
I told all of them, last one, no more, no more–
“And all my oldest friends were there,
the cop, the judge, the teacher; the businessman.
The cop sang Karaoke with me, like in junior high
and the teacher said, man, you still got your voice!
I won over your Mom with my singing, you know?
All night the judge sat idly with his second wife
besides the businessman. It’s been a decade since we met.”
And though he was glowing sunwards, orange and red, I thought he’d die in the instant.
I’ve always hated sticky goodbyes, turning back at the door, around the porch, the nightwind.
Most days my parents raised knives, carved scars, drew blood; never drunk nor impatient.
Instead, it was how evil the world, how friends were only polite, like bouquets of false daisies
I don’t know if Dad kept his promise.
Last I saw him, he was curt and coarse.
I don’t know if I’ll go home this year.
I’ve always hated sticky goodbyes.
I live in a city with all my oldest friends–
the cynic, the radical, the writer, the bassist.
They are now names instead of faces to me.
I haven’t seen anybody I’ve known for a long time.
And I am sending voice-notes en masse, in the winter morning. Won’t you come by this weekend?
–For a cold dinner? There are no knives in my house anymore. I’m sorry, I am, a thousand times
–If you come by, I’ll clean up all the boxes around my ankles, make you a bed for the night.
I’ll buy a bottle of wine, wear something I don’t get to wear at work. And you don’t have to wait
for me to be home. The front gate is open, I’ve never locked it. I wish you’d burn down the door
Jaye Chen was born and raised in Suzhou, China. They won Yale University's Sean T. Lannan Poetry Prize and the Jonathan Edwards College Creative Writing Prize for their long-form epic poem, Homily. Their poems have appeared in poets.org, DIAGRAM, Babel Between Us, and no, dear. They live in Brooklyn.
Edward Lee is an artist and photographer from Ireland. His paintings and photography have been exhibited and published widely, with many pieces in private collections. His website can be found at https://lastimagesphotography.com
Instagram: @edwardleeart
Instagram: @edwardleeart
