In My
Father’s House
(for Barbara)
The floors
creaked at the weight of dawn
the weight of
sun tapping window one by
one they would
come to biscuits and butter
grits my
mother’s tables set perfectly in this
House of my
father we held no claims to
lives toppling
out the way they toppled in
the uncontrolled
and undetected last weeks
check payment in
full account a closed book
A story barely
read illegible never written
sometimes the
lives came so fast and left so swift
we thought we
were imagining fishes caught
in daddies
net ones that got away
Had it not been
for momma keeping record
canned
tomatoes one down for every one
gone an
abacas she added and subtracted
on had it not
been for that garden full
Red ripe
tomatoes to can after season we would
not have known
all the lives touched remembered
in that house of
my father we counted our blessings
by the sounds
of doors closing numbers of shadows
Remaining on the
porch under windows cawing at
the crows of the
world had it not been for that man
that woman
making sure bellies were full and roofs
tip top for any
kind of riders at night had it not been
For creaks in
the floor boards bending the moment dawn
breathed I
could not paint the world
in fire
water tree or bird
Girls I
Knew—Grenshaw, Chicago, Ill.
outside the
bodega they play
leaning and
banging blood
barely breathing
they funnel smoke
rings underneath
stars dowtown closed-
in sweet as
pressed flowers
a swarm of snap
dragons
a sack of
rhododendrons
a blanket of
misgivings
a song sprayed
across the truth
