Twelve people, most of us strangers, stand in a room
in Ann Arbor, drinking Cribari from jars.
Then two young men, who cooked him,
carry him to the table
on a large square of plywood: his body
striped, like a tiger cat’ s, from the basting,
his legs long, much longer than a cat’ s,
and the striped hide as shiny as vinyl.
August, goldenrod blowing. We walk
into the graveyard, to find
my grandfather’ s grave. Ten years ago
I came here last, bringing
marigolds from the round garden
outside the kitchen.
I didn’ t know you then.
We walk
among carved names that go with photographs
on top of the piano at the farm:
Keneston, Wells, Fowler, Batchelder, Buck.
In October of the year,
he counts potatoes dug from the brown field,
counting the seed, counting
the cellar’ s portion out,
and bags the rest on the cart’ s floor.
He packs wool sheared in April, honey
in combs, linen, leather
tanned from deerhide,
and vinegar in a barrel
hooped by hand at the forge’ s fire.
Each morning I made my way
among gangways, elevators,
and nurses’ pods to Jane’ s room
to interrogate the grave helpers
who tended her through the night
while the ship’ s massive engines
kept its propellers turning.
Week after week, I sat by her bed
with black coffee and the Globe.
At the edge of the city the pickerel
vomits and dies. The river
with its white hair staggers to the sea.
My life lay crumpled like a smashed car.
Windows barred, ivy, square stone.
Lines gather at mouth and at eyes
like cracks in a membrane.
Eyeballs and tongue spill on the floor
in a puddle of yolks and whites.
The intact 707
under the clear wave, the sun shining.
