was the identical summer time he met my mom.
He and Uncle Max, residence from school,
labored the household farm, drove cattle
between fields, handed out by a hearth
after buying and selling swigs of Previous Grand-Dad
from Max’s flask, the night time sky lit up
like a marquee, “Kashmir” enjoying softly
on their transportable radio. It was 1975.
On off days, he’d drive to Carbondale
and see Dylan or Elton. He grew
his first beard, wore aviators and snap-button
shirts, smashed a copperhead’s cranium
with the heel of his boot. He met her,
buddy of a buddy, on somebody’s entrance porch.
Late July. He pulled a beer from a cooler
and handed it to her. Overhead, carpenter bees
dug into the eaves, dropping a little bit wooden mud
that hung within the air, caught on the wind,
briefly softening the view, frivolously obscuring it.
At what level ought to I let you know
my father spent that summer time on the farm,
resigned from his job in Chicago,
as a result of he deserted his first marriage,
washed his arms of a daughter, and hardly
seemed again? And what to do with this?
Figuring out my existence relies upon
on these details—the beer, the radio,
my sister—each one in all them.
