All I have left of my grandfather
is his hands,
his way of standing
soldier straight.
Of my grandmother, I have her
gravelly voice,
the smoke curling upward
in the dark of the night.
Of my aunt, the
nickname she called me–
Bee-dee-beep.
And my uncle,
the sound of his laughter,
his tipsy stumble the last Christmas,
his nap with socks on
in the bedroom in the corner.
How long is left
until I’ve lost
all the pieces
of the people I love?
I took a tour through my father’s childhood–
the house on Coles Boulevard,
the hill where his elementary used to be.
We drove down main street and
he told me all the names
of stores no longer there.
We stopped by the church
where my grandmother misheard
that Hare Krishnas were in the sanctuary
instead of hairy creatures.
I asked the questions I never had,
learned things I never knew.
No one still alive knows how my
grandparents met.
My grandfather ran the motor pool
in World War II.
How my great-grandmother, my namesake
put up with my raving lunatic
of a great-grandfather.
(The reason
I can never marry
a man named Frank.)
The two of us
hung our underwear out to dry
on the balcony,
unprepared for rain, for luggage gone astray,
for foreign buses,
thieving teenagers on the subway,
and women begging in the market
with their nipples hanging over
sleeping babies.
The two of us stood in the rain
to see the Sistine Chapel,
Accidentally heard the Pope
give mass on New Year’s Day,
Ate coconut fresh from the hull
after dropping our coins in
Trevi Fountain.
The two of us
stood in the Colosseum and the Circus Maximus,
put our hands in the Mouth of Truth,
Saw holy relics, famous sculptures,
and gilded ceilings.
The two of us
made memories to last
a lifetime.
Slide this syllable and that one together and you
Get the light fading from blue through orange, purple and pink.
Put that syllable with another,
And you get laughter,
Toes dangling in the air,
Arms pumpin,
Falling through the air
To thump back to the ground.
Even then, these syllables together
Mean nothing
To the Italian or the German,
The Chinese or African.
All these syllables floating around,
waiting to be scooped up by tongue
or pen to paint the pictures
in our minds.
One more day to write a poem –
Can I salvage some elusive thoughts
That never made it to paper?
Like finally fundamentally understanding why Elvis was shocking?
Or how it is hard to put flowers on only one side of a grave –
How some days the way the light hits the barns is profound
and I am moved to tears
but not for you.
I. they say eatin’ pussy
is the devil’s work
so i go down
on you
like i’m
possessed
II. you suck
my dick
in noah’s ark
at the bible themed
putt putt course
like it’s the only hope
of saving
the species
When the cardinal dropped from the sky
When the phoenix lost its last feather flame
Setting fire to the whole damn aviary
While I was still inside crying for help,
No answers carrying the words I needed to hear
Or maybe just wanted to hear, unsatisfied,
That’s when it all made sense to me.
People are people and none of them understand
The complicated machinations of my mind
But my words, both shared and kept in closed notebooks,
They understand me and I understand them.
I live by them and they keep me together,
They lick my wounds and swallow my revenge
They kill my ghosts and give me a future to believe in
Where people are still people and my words are always mine.
We all possess fears of the unknown especially in spheres
A particular domain in which we are uncomfortable unsure
A bailiwick where we fear to tread
In which we perilously vulnerable forced to flounder
Operate with all our flaws on display
Expertise and skill gaps flaunted and
Authority humbled for our own good
Across the road
Next door
In my yard
Trees meticulously trimmed and shaped
Wild and overbearing
Our gardens are winning
Sucked dry of all detritus
Sickly, dying, from some unknown blight
Battle of time and energy
Singular in their glory
Secret pockets of blooms
Goldenrod flourishes amid spent daylilies
No one casting shade upon another
Hidden gems forgotten
Husks of abandoned roses linger amid towering milkweed
