Roots

“Home is the place where, if you have to go there, they have to take you in.” – Robert Frost

I.

Once

upon

a

time

My family lived in a house far out in the country

on the banks of a small creek that cut deep through the red clay and glacial leavings

It left a cut bank

shallow caves

mud

stones

I would play there for hours

days

In my mind I go there still, lean back against the cool damp earth

II.

When I was a young man my grandmother died, cancer throughout her body

She loved me

she

touched me

I did not stay to watch her die, but left

for anyplace

someplace unknown, known

only to me

My cheek against the soil, cool damp

The funeral was lovely, I'm told.

My grandfather lived on for twenty-two years without her

and never spoke to me again

III.

He taught me how to pound a nail

saw a board

crack a walnut in my hand

held me against his chest

cool

strong

IV.

I lean my back against the roots around my arm against my shoulder

I can feel the tattered beaten flannel

hard whisky cigarette breath

I push back until I cannot feel the tears

no longer feel the hope

only my hollow chest

beating heart

I would like not to go there anymore ever again

but
who else would I talk to?

where else

can I go?

2010