from a photograph of my maternal grandfather
discovered at my cousin Natasha's home
You're not her grandfather,
But here I stand, finding you,
As usual, leaning against a wall
In some other woman's home.
This is how I've found you
After all these years. Same way
Grand used to find you, too.
Shifting through four decades,
I move to stand closer to you,
Wanting you to finally see me.
Still-can't make your eyes see mine.
You delicately balance a shot glass
Between thumb and index
Fingers of your taut, sculpted arm.
Same amber arm that sent
The flapping screen door flying
One direction, the last time,
Ripping a gash within meshed fibers.
The slim thwack of pine
Slammed in Grand's face, echoing
Like buckshot, all these years.
I extend lax fingers to the wrinkles,
Then flare waxy nostrils against the pane,
To stand up in your face.
Even so, you still don’t see me,
Just like those penance visits
Amounting to two hours
Over just as many years,
Buying twelve grandchildren
Sandwiches to feed your guilt
-This fading memory of you:
Mom said, I remember
The white majorette boots
With blood-red tassels
That he shipped C. O. D.
All the way from Chicago.
I was so proud while everyone
Cooed through clenched teeth,
'They're so pretty, Baby Ann.'
Grand grumbled,
Too bad he couldn't remember
To send money for food.
Our family never could get that
Inky, bleeding stain off the boots.
The mark soiled through the grain
But never softened the rub.
Don't get nervous,
My gregarious good-time man,
I'm not here to summon you home.
We've resigned ourselves
To loving you second-hand.
I won't force you
To come out of the grey-to stand
Eye to I with me. I know now
You are a keepsake best left
In some other woman's home.
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