Your grandfather
Was not a man of many hugs
Or confessions to his children
But he knew how to work.
In the courtroom or chopping wood in a blue jean shirt, he knew how to take a life and make it a legacy
He knew how to provide
And plant the seed
And remember.

Twins, his sons
And a daughter too
Born of his slight wife
The only true queen I've ever known
Who delights in the world like a questioning child, eager to hear it all and say, "isn't it wonderful?"
She doesn't have to ask, she knows
But chooses to speak in inclusions

Your grandfather loved her and you and his children and the farm and he would love who you have become, are becoming
His ashes scattered in the back field, surrounding your solitary early morning walks,
you've never been a praying man
But breathing in the air and silently speaking to him is closer than close,
It's sacred.

I'll never know firsthand what he smelled like or talked like,
Or cooked like.
Is the family gift his too or did it go back further than that? His father and his father?
Did Queen and King meet with shallots and spatulas up their sleeves? or did he just get lucky? great cooks all around him, sitting down at the table with an appetite to match the caseload stacked upon his desk, Enjoying every bite.

Did he pick you up in his arms and dote on your perfection? Your funny ears and wide set eyeballs. Did he see you play golf?

Us lucky ones got grandfathers who built something worth fighting for
Houses that won't be destroyed
No matter what thieves try to pillage
Men who were not perfect
No matter how our memories blur the edges
men that could make you nervous
Just by sitting quiet
Keeping logs and keeping ledgers
Calculations And reminders
Pencils down to stubs
Mapping down what was and demanding something better

Your grandfather was not a man of many hugs
He was foolproof, he was shelter.




Polished pink
Except for one
Whose sheen was swiped
In haste
The paramedics needing a clear surface
For their reading.
Used to averting my eyes
And covering my ears
In instances of blood-talk
I don’t know what they’re measuring
But I'm here to sit
With my hand on her arm,
Be steady
As she struggles to breathe.

I'm prepared for her last breath
To be soon
Her rattled throat
Sounds of liquid in her lungs
I listen to the chief responder's evaluation,
Unmoved.

She needs the hospital
But doesn’t want it.
I would never convince her otherwise.
I would hold her hand until she died
If that’s what she decided.

My nails, unpolished and picked over
Would make her tut
So unladylike.

Patrolling my beauty
Is not on her mind
Right now
But after the unwanted hospital
And a few days at home
She notices
And tells me so.




On Seeing Ntozake Shange Perform in 2017


The crowd starts to disperse
For this living legend
And I thought it would break my heart
Or make me laugh
But I know she'll have the last
How many people have written 18 books of poetry,
Award-winning plays, several novels
Started a genre
And got a band together
At sixty-eight years old
To speak-sing in a nasal voice
In front of the East River
Paid for by the city of New York?

Walking on stage with a cane and companion
In that long dress
And cornrows
Practically ancient
Bold in her themes
Nightclub massacres and rock n'roll
And love
Love poems like
How it feels when he touches you
The background singer “ooohs" and “aaahs" and "touch me's"
Decades too late to be cool

What is there to criticize
About a woman who has never decided
Her voice was not worth hearing?

Queen, croon your words
Tell us you are bringing us to a juke joint, a river bed, to have a good time in these dark days
After making us imagine the blood of your daughter on the Miami dance floor
Coughing into the microphone
Needing water
Needing a moment
“Feeling good makes your throat dry sometimes.”

“Ra-Ra!” she says and throws her arms up in the air
Describing what she's seen
And how she's tasted it
And the children
That were beaten
And the cities that held birds
And mothers
And sports teams.

Taking up the night
The piano and guitar
Jazz singer and shaker
Finish it off
Her song,
She coughs
Unshaken
And starts again.



I was what, twenty
And estranged from theatre
When I met him
Sam
I didn't know it when I shook his hand
Thought he was just another customer
Or old neighborhood friend
My boss thought I should meet.

He walked outside
And she said something
That made it clear I didn't know who I'd spoken to.
Shepard, she said.
That was Sam Shepard.

Pterodactyls in my heart,
I stuttered
Then started to cry,
Weak-kneed myself down on the chair by the dishwasher behind the bar
Surprised by my own reaction
I never had heroes
Not since Harriet the Spy
But I guess
His words had filled my mouth,
My lungs and gut
Pretending to be Patty Smith pretending to be a kidnapper of the next great American rock star
Pretended that he had loved a play I'd written as part of an exercise in first year acting school when I needed to be elated
And my mind went straight to artistic validation
Wrote scenes down word for word in my Moleskines on Friday nights at coffee shops without wifi.

My grandmother Margie passed away last week
And I have had no trembles for it yet
Few tears
I find it hard
To feel pierced by someone
Who's words I've never read
I know what holding her hand felt like
Exactly what her bedroom looked like
Am wearing her replacement wedding band on my right ring finger
And still I wonder if that's all that's left
A signature on a birthday card
An old jewelry box
Scripture she liked
But none of her own words
to know her by.




She said 
I hope you won’t see me
In the morning