The Admiral Oasis Motel

**Trigger Warning: Themes of childhood trauma**

Images from a postcard of the Admiral Oasis. Judging by the cars, this looks like an early series of photos. Screenshot by author.

Pickled pigs’ feet, silverware
soaking in scummy water
silent, motionless
a rancid orange edging all of it.
​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​There,
in a reeking basement motel room
full of smoke and desolation.
Was this a normal life?
Who knows.
I didn’t know anything about
normal life.

Oh, but at least
​​I didn’t have to live in this
festering place, with him.
It was weekend visits,
for the number of months—
years? — that he lived there.
He lived here.
My father, whose towering IQ
I had heard about ​​​​​​​my whole life,
lived in this rank hole
in the basement,
where the most derelict tenants
​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​were stored.

Linoleum floors.
Green? Auburn?
Two single beds.
Two chairs pushed together
to make a third.
​That’s where my brother…