Search

for my Grandfather


A single-page obituary

told me more than you ever did.


I never made the drive,

which perhaps was selfish,

perhaps was simply sensible.


What is blood but life, anyways?

You never even went to war—

just fired rifles into thick Florida air.


Why say elegy instead of eulogy—

perhaps I don’t know enough to

commend

I certainly don’t know

enough to come mend absences;

I deliberated and

then he died.


And so elegy, for I mourn a

myriad of misshapen things:


Mother-love, daughter-love,

baggage at a different platform

entirely and we have to call across

crackling satellite space to coordinate

our grief.


Mine was the last, crackling

voice he heard, and could it

conceivably have been a relief?


Did he/you hold on too long—

what is blood but life, anyways?

Literally speaking, we share none

at all,

yet somehow a thick

rich arterial flow flooded

that stilted call.

Recent Posts

See All

damascus

I haven’t asked him for his number because now I am known, now the I-I-I am afraid, now I am up there on the raggedy cross with Christ: no longer unimaginable (so a little breathless), no number, no d

a better question

In the end, I suppose the better question is: how does the ocean feel about us?

FOLLOW ME

I emerged from my door and carried into my present moment the quivering skeleton of a whom this poem is for, a what is trying to be accomplished. We are the escape artists. We point the way out. We pa

+1 (202) 384-5561

  • Visit my Facebook page!
  • Visit my Instagram

©2017 by The Kilele Project. Proudly created with Wix.com