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 ran
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

I would like not to go there anymore ever again

but
who else would I talk to?

where else

can I go?