Wednesday, December 10, 2014


The river moves beneath the sheet ice. 
The wind is a grand hall of records. 
In the recipe box above the refrigerator, 
the deathbed photos of four generations — 
somewhere, their hands have turned
to prime numbers. Somewhere, 
a voice that smells like a well bucket 
has arranged the vowels of my name 
like three glass pill bottles. Mother of wet rope 
and cordwood, Father with your pant-cuffs
of smoke, I feel myself spinning back
to the first hour of the universe 
to rest within a singular shade of carbon. 

Michael McGriff, 2014