How do I tell you I was raised to believe family
was the only way to save yourself. When my uncle died I had never felt so torn
How do I tell you family
save yourself. my uncle felt
my father rattle his casket, spoke
badly in the hallways my mother remembers
a blank space We
we drank weeping,
in the streets
he knew. My father whispered God—
that ended . Better .
I tell you I believe family
was the way my uncle died
I watched . his casket,
in a mortuary once
in youth. the site of the crash.
On that hot summer night, we witnessed
a man deranged built over a family
no longer whispered this God—
would have ended .
I watched my father break a hole in the wall. He rattled his brother's casket, spoke
badly of him in the hallways of a mortuary my mother remembers as once only being
a blank space on the side of the road in her youth. We drive past the site of the crash.
was the uncle I had
watched break his brother , spoke
of a mother as once being
That drank away
a home a family
he knew. Bud Light was a sign from God—
that my uncle would end this.
How do you believe
yourself. When I had never
watched my father break his brother ,
badly in ways my mother remembers being
space on the road the site of the crash.
as we drank we witnessed
a man looking for a family
he no longer knew. between sips of Bud Light this God
is how my uncle ended up dead .
On that hot summer night, as we drank outside away from the weeping, we witnessed
a man deranged in the streets looking for a home that had been built over and a family
he no longer knew. My father whispered between sips of Bud Light this was a sign from God—
that this is how my uncle would have ended up. Better dead than
to save yourself. when torn
apart. watch the wall.
the side of the road drive
away from the weeping,
in the streets look for a
that would end
Originally a stanza that became a poem itself after playing with the different ways in which memories are held or how they dissolve—the aftermath of memory.