Grandfather
You were a gnarled oak tree,
knuckles dug in the black soil
of home, holding all of us safe
from the storms that fell like
hammers. You seemed so strong.
When you died, nobody could
lift their tongues to speak the
words, the words that must be
spoken. I gave you eulogy.
I was barely eleven.
Your death broke the dam.
She spoke, in a rush of words,
water, destruction. Your
fists pounding the boys. Your
words gouging my mother's face,
marking her body.
Your women. Their ghosts rattling
around your marriage bed, putting
a killing knife in my grandmother's
hand, pointing it at her own breast.
How you stole the daylight and
shrouded her in misery.
I didn't know. I didn't know. I gave
your eulogy when I was barely
eleven because I was the only one
who didn't know. Who saw you as
the oak tree, unbending, unbroken.
