(by Daniel R. Jones)
“This is a holy moment,” dad said,
pouring my vodka down the kitchen sink.
“You need to know I’m proud.”
But my sixteen-year-old brain
toggled between godly sorrow
and utter shame.
In terms of salvation,
“come clean,” is a most
unfortunate misnomer.
We tend to come
dirty, broken
and afraid.
80-proof Smirinoff
circling down
the drain
like some backwards
Old Testament
drink offering.
A holy moment, indeed.
Bez&Co 
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