sweet grief

Eighty-seven years later the cicadas knock
at my back door to tell me my grandfather is dead
The rustle of their prayer shawls deafens me and nothing
I can do will stop the sugar bowl’s plummet. Sweep—

At my back door they tell me my grandfather is dead
It is grief that parts the wattle and daub, the planking ribs
And nothing will stop the sugar bowl’s plummet.  Sweet
Grief that permits us to ring this red gouge in the earth

It is grief that parts the wattle and daub, the planking ribs
To speak of cams and carburetors: hard proxies for love
Grief that gathers this rag-tag lineage at a hole in the ground
Take for instance the old man’s eyes.  Closed

Speaking of cranks, clutches, and other proxies for love
Closed — and mercifully, finally, empty of fear
Take for instance the old man’s eyes. Closed
And the smelting furnace that is August in the South

Finally closed and mercifully empty of fear
I miss you dead old man, those drunken monkeyshines
The smelting furnace that is men together in the South
And the way you pawed the tits of all my girlfriends

I miss you old man, the bullets in your teeth, and monkeys
Tell me one more time about a day so humid the minnows
And the way the tits of all my girlfriends pawed you
The minnows swam into the sky. Fell back slick as miracles

Tell me once more, before you go, about a day so humid
I am punch drunk with hope here, and want
To swim myself, up. I don’t care so much where I fall
I fall often and there is nothing miraculous about it

I am punch drunk with want here, and hope
The rustle of their prayer shawls deafens me and nothing
About the way I stumble and fall about is miraculous
Eighty-seven years later the cicadas knock