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
