Look at me, writing circles around what I must face:
The man I love is dead.
For he was so curious about the shapes & pressures
of our American lives, he made each friend
feel like the genius-author of a great story.
ate only bites but
always well: warm boysenberry pie,
bone broth matzoh ball soup
And survivors with numbers tattooed on their arms, straight as a
the ink indelibly blue, unlike the blessedly changing ocean.
The darkness arrived without your voice
or touch, my love, and yet I heard
your voice and felt your hand in mine.
her infinite soprano
and my street drawl voicing words that could
depress a saint
Forget all the nonsense
about eyes opened or closed
or brain waves
Grandma lived to be ninety-three
and wore the fabric of that tale to a soft sheen
with her retelling. Where does the past lie?
There aren’t many like him anymore, the handy, soft-spoken old ones, who still know how to farm, how to raise up a house you can live in, how to still-hunt a whitetail.
I keep trying to persuade my father
into a better opinion of me now that he is dead.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind…