Great grandfather, I'm so sorry you
drank boric acid in 1914 and killed
yourself, it must have been a long
and miserable way to say to hell
with life.  A confusing legacy
left to your succeeding kin
who thought maybe your
heart went boop, or
a streetcar called
No Desire wrote
your final
history.

They ask have we turned
the corner away from
hell toward sun
& lofty ideals?

I am no judge
open your
rosebud
eyes &
see.

Brother, this all you need to know about my life --
I live near a river where hawks **** & coyotes
run past with varments in their jaws
to be eaten-- fur, sinew
& bone.

She said I need
to pull your
pants off,

lay still or you'll be sorry,
remember last
time?

Maybe I was
three or four
when I ******

the bed;
the next day
mother was gone,

forever.

They gather under
the steeple, beneath
spire and holy cross,

when I run past on
Sunday mornings
especially when

it's sunny with
leaves budding
I think of lifting

the preacher's wife's
dress to her waist,
her eyes glued

to the sky.

She loved **** early & too often
was her uncle Mike showed
her how doggies do it &

she taught me how
to howl into
the sky

loud enough
to startle
crows

cause them to shiver
from the oaks &

I loved that girl
who left town

a blue Chevy
it was, so
long

ago.

Hair mottled like
an aged mare

she descends
the steps

one withered leg
dangles from

a  purple dress like
a frost nipped

cornflower.