by Alex Chapple

They became fugitives on the run,
my dopamine receptors,
when I stopped drinking.

Sometimes, when I push my daughter
on the swing set,
I think I’ve almost caught them,
the armed law that is her laughter
shooting

but missing.

One time, yelling “Daddy!”,
she came to me with both hands
clenched around something small,
something hidden,
and though it would defy physics,
I thought it was a bottle of bourbon.

With a smile, she revealed
a pinecone,
and my brain had so hoped it was alcohol,
for a moment it was fooled it was,
and I felt the delight
of that pinecone,
the tree it had come from,
and the justice of apprehended joy.

^{Image by Kaitlyn Baker on Unsplash}