my grandfather
tottering
wrote me a poem in capitals
wicker baskets and theodore roethke
(love like he’s experienced it
like so many years)
my grandfather wrote me portraits of a long life
(whiskey and hot coffee he says)
and the drum beat falters
old-fashioned handwriting and no-longer-memories in photographs
he can’t sleep he tells me
can’t sleep
(too soon to go into that good night)
choking on what he’s said and now just waiting
my grandfather wrote me the scent of his cologne and pressed shirts
(i can’t escape my family no matter how hard i try
he follows me
the scent of someone passing)
letters on fragile paper
frail love
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