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Growing Up

I dreamt my grandfather died

in his brown leather chair


and my own father, suddenly

found to be there.


I held him, I held up

his back with my hand.


It was rigid, dense and

compact as the land.


He was aged, and storied,

unable to hear me;


he asked in a small voice

“Why is nobody near me?”


I awoke, I awoke, I awoke —

and grief was deep in my throat.


Growing up is not what we have been told:

it begins, in the end, with the end of the old.


It is reckoning: things begin and things end.

All at once, all again, things begin and things end.