Putting my father to rest

I learned to skip stones at the lagoon.

Who were the older boys who taught me?

My father would know, but he died some

years ago. His girlfriend ordered white doves,

let them loose in her backyard, with everyone

watching. Her son, who makes a living as El Vez,

the Mexican Elvis Presley impersonator, served

the liquor to guests, the liquor that killed my father.

My father tried not to fall down and hit his skull.

He was a smart man, but seemed to selectively

not understand how vodka, over time--and liters--

can poison you. I want to be at that same skipping

stone shore today, I want to grasp the flattest

roundest gray stones, flick my wrist

just so, and send the things flying,

then bouncing, again and again and again,

until they grow tired, lose control,

and sink under the water forever.