Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Dear Dad,


In Greenbush, Minnesota,

you wrestled your mistakes
before moving down
to Dallas to minister.
Dad, did ya experience
sinister beings in the
bible-belt

buckle?

Mother's father called
you, Damn Yankee.
He also told me grey
was good in our Civil

War.

Mutti made a home
near her fair-skinned,
Paul. She kept her hands
working till the semi
took her life, scattered
her necklace—family
stones were

tossed.

Edwin, grandfather,
worked the postal
vehicle for years
without a single
accident, he died young.
He took pieces of us
with him, though
I never knew your

Dad.

Uncle Reginald is
bold. Your big brother,
athlete among
ferocious men,
still fights glorious
flint-faced

fellows.

Aunt Becca never
left us. She slept
on horses and married
a fireman. Only to live
forever in Texas, where,

Dad,

you met your Dawne
of Creation.

Daddy dearest, keep
this letter near. We
must never forget
our home, regardless
of the murky waters
around us.

We're all displaced
persons till we return
to the dirt we're from.




1 comment:

  1. πŸ˜³πŸ˜”πŸ’ƒπŸ˜πŸ˜§πŸ˜‘yes

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