Samuel Lewis Gee
Grandfather Dan, My Dad, Kitchen Table, 2005They talk about baseball, the Buick that won’t
start, the chemo that did, what their wives
will think. Dad’s finest wine, hazed like memory
graces their plastic cups. Their hands drip
from washing dishes. Dad’s watch yawns toward morning.
Tell your son I wanted to be an artist, Dan says, his
good years lost to napalm’s soft Monet, to the
water lilies of howitzers. Vivaldo lilts through
the radio. Dan takes his son’s hand as if to say
remember me as his Four Seasons, as the holy whorl
of cochlea, as the shiver into Spring. As the light
of a fairly good star. Make me something not myself.
In two months, the half-empty moon
smokes his handpicked plot. Above his stone name
the stars roll like paint on tilted silk—
Unsatisfied, he counts them through his rifle scope,
swirls one with the tip of this barrel.
Genuine yellow drips from his muzzle.
©2016 Samuel Lewis Gee