seeing my grandmother cry herself to sleep
because she had to bury her lover 6 feet deep

a feeling that makes me cry myself
I never thought I'd have to feel
my poor grandmother feels so alone
I would do anything to help her heal

she wakes up each morning
completely in ignorant bliss
forgetting about the sobs in her sleep
without her husband's goodnight kiss

moving around keeps herself busy
drinking alcohol every night to make her dizzy

once the thoughts slow down
and her mind comes to relief
she must think about her deceased husband
crying in disbelief

she longs for connection
from the family who still lives
asking them to come around
before her heart gives

living through the days she tries so hard
but she struggles to visit his garden in the backyard

he still lives around their home
leaves his shoes by the front door
she will never be rid of him
her love for him lasting evermore

I wish I could help her
I think about her every day
and how my poor grandpa
never meant to make her feel this way

You have seen many moons,
and still the chariot sleeps,
and though many suns,
it’s sleep is ever sweet.

For it rises for the fading,
the weak and moribund of those,
yet being young at heart,
your soul is not yet old.

And even when it wakes,
to gather all its prey,
It passes swiftly by,
for it knows not your name.


Dara.

I lived with my grandparents
as a boy before kindergarten.
My grandfather, a union boilermaker,
always left for the job early in the morning before I woke.
In the evenings, pap would stumble through
the back door, covered in soot, exhausted.
Sometimes I'd run up to him and hug his leg,
a sign of appreciation, true love.
Pap always laughed in delight at the affection
and then he’d pat my back in approval.

As I clung to pap’s ***** work pants,
the sharp smell of burnt metal filled my world.
It was the scent of the Rust Belt
that often hung in the air around the steel mills
and so many manufacturing centers.
That familiar smell reflected the gritty region,
its culture of hard day labor and heavy Sunday dinners,
the only way of life we understood.

Fifteen years later, sitting together
on pap’s back porch next to his stack of books,
his retirement library, the metallic scent was gone,
along with the steel mills and the rail yards.
‘I miss that smell,’ I said.
Pap kind of frowned and rolled his eyes
in that way when we hear the young and naive
speak without wisdom or experience.
‘I don’t,’ he said.

white pink skechers follow brown-leather feet
padding down the stairs, nothing but fall leaves and
a generation between us

the older man glides the purple beauty into our front yard and
onto the sidewalk
gramps is a dedicated biker and will be years from now

polished aluminum gives way to the sun and
his eyes gleam along with it

he guides me down the pavement, conserving my speed with a trembling palm

on the handlebar

holds me tight and shows me how not to ride,
when to push through an upcoming hill and
when to brake

--
c

As my brother and I drove away from my grandmother’s funeral he asked me if maybe grandpa called her “Anne” instead of “grandma” was because he didn’t remember who we were.

I think I’ve cried more about Hannah than I did at my grandma’s funeral. Which is kinda ****** up cause Hannah isn’t dead she just doesn’t want to date me anymore.

So I feel like kind of an *******.
I’m kind of an *******.

Hannah’s not her real name.

I have this blanket. On my bed. My grandma crocheted it for me – to give to me on my wedding day.

I’m not married.  
You could probably guess that.

And my grandma is dead now.
You could probably guess that too.

The blanket sleeps on my bed.
My bed sleeps in my memories of
where Hannah used to lay.
Soft slumber and figures puzzling together in the warm darkness – thick with breath
The blanket following the soft curves of her body and now I’m thinking of my naked ex and dead grandma in the same sentence and we should change the subject.

My grandparents slept in separate beds and I always thought that was weird.
Grandma was like peanut butter on homemade bread
The fancy peanut butter. Not that Jiffy crap.

It was the bread that made the difference.
give a loaf of it to each family for Christmas
My cousin got the recipe but she doesn’t make it right.

We made ramen once. Hannah and I, not me and my grandma. We didn’t use a recipe and the eggs made her sick.

I had a cold when I hugged my grandma and I fear it made her sick.

She died two days later.

Grandma once said you’re never too old to hug your grandparents.

my brother does this thing where he siphons the stories from someone. Usually old people because they have the best stories

I drive through the old homestead – the fog of my emotions

Have of my memories

My father does this thing where he holds his little hands at his waist, twisting them inside one another

We are three generations eating dominoes pizza

Defined by death and divorce – not there and not existing yet
My grandfather is 90. He is stories made flesh and my brother pulls at them like a rope from a,

Well,

Because he has discovered the census data for Ham Lake from 1940

My grandfather tells stories of the missing generation

His father – can’t work because he’s a welfare brat

His mother died young

Stepmother an angel – gave him socks when his father was crying because they cut him off

My father – tells underbreath mumbles of lost arguments and lost respect – he gives me socks for Christmas

Father drank a lot. You get to pick who I’m talking about. Maybe alcoholism skips a generation. If so I fear for my children.

Grandpa joined the navy. His father got a job – everyday worked it through sickness and in health – a marriage of money and mind because the paycheck meant freedom and freedom meant everything

He finds his dad at work – navy uniform coated in the expectations of his brothers.

“So you went and did it.”

The story kind of trails off there, the way old people stories do. Kind of like young person poems

I helped my dad set up the TV we got him for Christmas

Because he never used the guitar center gift card from last year.

You died twenty years ago today.
On February 7, 1998, you passed away.
You were born in 1910 and died at the age of eighty-seven.
Twenty years ago, you left this Earth and went to Heaven.

You became a widower in 1957 and had your kids to finish raising.
You finished raising your kids by yourself and that was amazing.
When you died, it was something that I hated.
You were my Papaw and you were appreciated.

Forty days have passed and I still think about you every night
As I lay down in my bed
As I lay down with my thoughts

Forty days have passed and I don’t wear black everyday
But I feel that shade inside
Plain and simple
Dark and lonely
There’s nothing I can do to change it
You’re gone and that’s permanent
The finality is jarring

Forty days have passed but every night I close my eyes and see them throw dirt over you
My heart sinks and lowers down my rib cage echoing your coffin
I know that wasn’t you, you left us already by then
Yet why does my mind keep returning to that scene

Forty days have passed but Cyprus doesn’t feel quite like home anymore
Neither does London.

Forty days have passed and I keep finding my eyes stinging and breath escaping
I don’t know what to do, I don’t think any of the family know what to do now you’re gone
I suppose just carry on

Forty days have passed and my black clothes mean nothing to these people or my friends but you know and so do I

Every night I look at those constellations you pointed with one hand and the other holding your cigarette
When I see the stars shine
It’s your sign
Six months have passed and I know you’re here but I can’t bring myself to take off this black just yet

Mom
Is the one who
  Sacrificed her comfort
   For 9 months for me.
    She taught me
     To play, cook,
      And be a good person.

Max
Is the brother
  I've had since age four
   Often annoying, but
    Still so sweet
     The best brother
      I could ask for.

Babcia
Is the grandmother
  Who has been making
   Some of the best food
    In the family
     She's kind and sweet
      And I love her to bits.

Grandma and Grandpa
Are the grandparents
  I couldn't thank enough
   For all they've done.
    Together, we
     Celebrate
      Party
      Love
     Enjoy
    Our time
   Together
  I wish it
Wouldn't end.

Dad
Is the father who...

...

Gave me half his DNA?
I guess?

...

Poem's over, bye!

I store still-lifes in my head,
Still-life cells I need to shred,
Living scenes, though some be dead.
Friends in pain, distraught, alone,
The homeless searching for a home.
Family crying, children dying,
In black and white, and technicolor,
Parents, babies, sisters, brothers,
In re-runs, awake, or in my slumber.
Close-ups I was witness to,
Actions I directed,
Or supporting actor to.
One day I'll stand on the stage,
For a curtain call I can't assuage;
The spot will light me,
I'm stripped naked,
In a bio-pic that's been my making.
I'll be a still-life in their heads,
A Dad and Granda,
Though still long dead.