The 260-Pound Zeus

His chariot: a 1970s brown Buick station wagon with a busted back window and a screwdriver to start the ignition. A tank. It could travel by water. It could travel by land. Rolling Rock bottles from the passenger side would clink together, little bells from above, as he turned into the driveway. A twenty-four pack his shield, my father revealed himself, god of sky, god of everything that falls — chipped mugs, blue benches, forks, knives, checkbooks — striking walls, floors, sometimes my mother as her eyes turned into avalanches — he once turned her into a sphinx for silencing his nymphs. He once took away her mouth. Her hands became fins as she sat gluing a fallen footstool back together — he roared Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Shaking his shield as my sister’s piggy bank spiraled down the stairs, hailing nickels, pennies, dollar bills. His footsteps booming, rocking the house, rattling the cupboards, as the wind turned into his cigarette smoke coiling around my ears, as I collected his thunderbolts and stored them in my closet.