The house still stands
On East Union Street.
The ochre bricks and
Local limestone,
The concrete steps
That crumpled with time.
It is still there.
The porch where The Twins
Would carry out the
Horsehair couch and smoke
Because cigarettes were not
Allowed in the house.
There was a time when
We would build lions out of
Snow and perch them
On the copings.
It is smaller than I remember
But everything is smaller now.
It wasn’t unusual that my grandfather
Slept in the summer kitchen
And sat on the back porch
At midnight
(Because cigarettes were not
Allowed in the house).
It wasn’t strange that
My grandmother’s new television
Sat on top of her old one.
It was just so.
The air raid siren
In the city lot would roar
From behind her sagging
Clothesline and
Weeping willow.
Megaphones of Golden Gate
red rang every
Cold War morning,
Calling the farmer’s
Children home for breakfast.
“Fear is a silly thing”
It would sing,
“But there is a song for it.”
My grandmother, in her ruffled smock
Still dusted with flour and
Smelling like fresh rolls,
Would wipe the butter
From her fingers
And release a loud “Whoop!”
Because my grandfather could only
Hear the higher notes.
In her kitchen we have rules.
Politics and religion are
For the living room,
Lamb is for the
Dinner table.
My father was born in
The house around the corner.
He was the oldest
And the last one left.
How does a mother live
Through the deaths
Of three children?
There is a magical line of
Concrete around the family
Plot in the graveyard.
The footing for a house
The dead could never build.
But it keeps the ghosts
In the ground.
You can find a name
Carved on the back of
My father’s headstone.
It is my name.
If my children
need an inscription
In granite to lay
Flowers on my head,
They should lay them
With my father.
My body will be ashes
Scattered across the desert,
But my name is here.