August 24, 2006
Oh tell me there is no more of this.
Everyone asks me why I look so Italian
at your funeral.
It was a hot day when you had your stroke.
Mom and I slept on a blow-up mattress in your
living room because we had no where else to go.
Did you have any last words before you went away
inside your head? I did.
When I finally found you, your eyes
were as green as the day you were born.
In my hands you were the thread of ribbons,
tender little slips of sadness. Your left brow was
twisted up on your volcano face. I could see the
blood pressure paintings you finished during the night.
I still have dreams of you: slicing hot potatoes
in a basin of water and holding me as I cried
out the window waiting for Mom to come home.
Your daughter was a tornado before you died;
you know that.
I wish you could have known her now, green eyes
like yours, just as sad but so much stronger.
Mom finally came home, but you never did. Three generations
of memories woven, I still hear your ghost when I look
in the mirror.