For my dad
I am nearing the age of my grandmother
when she descended into madness.
When her husband took off and she found
herself solo raising three boys—too ill to work,
too poor, wasting her funds on shiny pinwheels
that reflected her face, spinning around and around
when she blew. I am nearing her age.
When my dad realized that his mother was not fit
to mother, surviving on ketchup soup,
hawking the pile of newspapers from the dime bin
on the streets of L.A. I am nearing her age.
When he and his brothers were sent
to disparate foster homes, his mother locked
in the asylum. When the techs ravished her beautiful
body and the meds ravished her beautiful
mind. When the nimbus swallowed the placid blue,
obliterating the sun. Lace her up, zip her in—
keep together what is always becoming undone.
Published by Blood and Thunder, Summer 2023