Good Will
Let me make my own choices, he says
Let me die as if I’m still man
Give me an ounce of dignity, as if I still can
And if my time has spoken, and I’m nearing the end
Allow God to resurrect me, ‘cause I’m no longer man.
I am learning about my past
through questions from my
great aunt to my father.
She is 88 and he is nearly 94.
When did you know you were
color blind? she asks in a letter.
I ask him as we write a letter
in return. Thoughtfully, in a
measured response, he says.
my dad was the one who knew.
It was before I started school.
I never knew this about the man
who raised me, until today.
Another precious moment he
remembers…
6/28/25
KW
(Brooklyn 1948)
My father was a tough guy
devolved from Dutch bureaucrats
a generation too late for money,
in debt to my rabbi grandfather
he had no control of his own family
Half of me is gay.
When i was a kid I didn’t know
what I was,
i was never a sissy
and never a bully.
My father tried to sniff me out,
it puzzled him
that i was something in between
When I was ten
boys from the Jewish school
played in a park on Greenpoint Avenue
that had a huge tree,
it didn’t bother me climbing
up to the top branch
to show off to the other boys
That’s when I learned
about the fear of heights
I was frozen
going down impossible,
the boys jeered at me,
after a couple of hours
one ran to my house
When my father came,
he stood beneath looking up,
laughing so hard
he had to hold his sides.
He shouted
I finally know who you are
you’re the boy who coldn’t get down
Last night at the Braves’ game
Rain started at game time.
A large, silver tarp, covered
the in-field.
It stormed, with no rhyme
or reason. It was uncovered
around 10:00. On a sloppy field
the Phillies scored first,
scored 2 in the second,
third inning the score
was 11 to 0. First
was to be first, second,
third and more rain
wet us,
let
the final score
after midnight:
be 13 to 0.
we spent a few hours
in a motel in Canton,
and then drove home
in showers.
Look at the underbelly of living things.
Notice how the belly bag hangs
in spring, the fur may be matted with damp, winter leaves
during autumn, the skin may be chafed from ice or wind
around summer, the whole thing may be crusted and overly dry
still, the animal will wander unconcerned, braving tall grass,
looking for small tastes of nothing, really
My thoughts rest on the underbelly of living things
when I am walking…
when I am walking toward uncertainty or renewal
when I am walking toward opportunity or discard
when I am walking toward a planting or harvest
I am thankful that I do not crawl
or live in a space close to the ground.
How marvelous it is to brush these fingers across my underbelly
when the walk has left me dirty.
The rain came hard
Pounded the metal roof
Like a drum
Relentless
The roar
Of the rising creek
Drowns out
The racing fears
The trees
Pop and crackle
As they are swept away
The scream
Of a fearful cow
As it struggles
To hold its head
Above raging waters
I slide back
the shower curtain
with the intention
of becoming
more cleanly
but in the tub
discover
an eight-legged
entity
of varying size
and realize
the entire ordeal
would prove
too exhausting
anyway
so I set in
a thin
cardboard
bridge
from floor
to topside
a spider off-ramp
and check back
later
to see if
they caught
their exit
