he said that we will die,
as all things will die,
go back to nature.

i agreed.

he will remember me.

the whole family,
returned in the evening
cooler, cleared the hay
from the graveyard.

it was hot, so
i layed a cold
flannel on
his head.




( in respect for david alexander mcalden. my friend )

“carry your words on every day”

Plywood braces windows,
palms rattle fronds against siding.
gutters spit as the wind climbs.

My grandfather on the phone,
his voice a flicker in the storm’s static.
The lot crowds, then scatters.

A ball, caked in sludge,
drifts into the gutter,
a dog leaping after.

It’s hard to tell laughter from siren,
shouts from wind, or hold his words
no matter how tight I press the receiver,

its plastic warm in my hand,
cord twisting at my wrist.
He calls because the Gulf is darkening,

because he knows the water climbs,
because I have spoken of moving west-
a desert- another gulf between myself and family,

closer to safety, farther from familiar.
Land ought to hold steady,
not wash out from under you,

he says, not telling me to stay,
not quite telling me to go.
As he speaks, the clearest sight

is the aluminum door straining,
blinds clattering like bones, then thunder-
a crack like plaster, like bone, its greyness

everywhere the air will go.
This beginning is weight-
pulling me west, to where

his universe bends uncertain.
In the pause between thunder
and his drawled breath,

not the words
but the weight
he meant me to carry.