Piñata

Every morning, 5:30 am, my brother shakes me awake
We look at each other, four eyes half closed with sleep
As my father picks us up by skinny waists in onesie pajamas
 
Dad curses as he scrapes the ice off the windshield of the frozen car
And lights a cigarette before he gets back in
A sliver of his window is rolled down, but the smoke trickles back
To me, to my smaller lungs, in the back seat
 
He presses the brake pedal too quickly and the rusted car glides,
Sliding past Madison Avenue, past my mother, past my safe haven
 
As the car crunches over compacted snow, I hug Dad,
Letting his prickly beard kiss my cheek before wobbling inside,
Back to childhood, innocence, biases
Never knowing that my small lungs were filled with smaller lies,
Filled up like the candy in piñatas, waiting to burst