Peg Cherrin-Myers

Incognito Mode

Pastor John leaves multiple messages
letting us know it’s a safe space now.
Says there has been an experience 
of spiritual rebirth, a finding 
of faith with one and only J.C.

In the rehab parking lot, 
after my brother and I abruptly leave 
our father’s room, my brother says 
I’m not gonna let that man make me start 
drinking again. Says his wife points 
out every time he’s standing like our father, 
every time he sounds like our father,
which gives him the heebie-jeebies
just thinking about it, and he shivers 
like a wet dog trying to get dry. And I wonder
if he ever allows himself to enjoy 
becoming Dad?

When I visit my 22-year-old daughter in Philly,
the day I leave to fly back to Detroit,
she’s already left for work. 
Just before I call an Uber to the airport, 
I hide $1, $5, and $10 bills around her apartment,
behind her childhood cat’s picture, inside
an Anthropologie volcano candle, around
the handle of 2% milk, underneath
a row of forks, tucked into a roll of paper towels,
and inside the left arm of her favorite
lounging cardigan. 

After work, she phones and says, 
Thanks for the cash, Mom! and I ask 
how much ‘ya find? $50 bucks!!!
I laugh out loud and say
there’s still five more dollars, kiddo.
In ones!

born again ...
my father coming back
as himself

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About the Author

Peg Cherrin-Myers lives in Southeast Michigan. They are a stay-at-home poet who spreads peanut butter on white bread, folds it in half, and dips it into a hot bowl of chili. They wear rainbow Tevas and drive a pickup. Their work has appeared in Frogpond, Stanchion Zine, Kingfisher Journal, Periodicities, and many others. Find them on X (formerly Twitter): @pegcherrinmyers.

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