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…
We go into the dark and the dark opens.
Boats tipped with light and moon on the water.
A Repeating Dream I’m Belly-Down at Eleven
beneath barbwire like bedsprings during night-climbs