My feet rest upon a stool of folded pine
my grandfather made years before he died
angry and consumed with contracted interests
and memories and unfamiliar weakness.
We would talk about old Western novels
the old lease, his brothers, familiar stories
of how things once were.
His wife had lost her language
and the overgod’s enginery failed around him.
But today is my daughter’s birthday
and my heart is an old cedar chest concealing a dancer
beguiled with strange aspirations
and a beauty only known in weakness.
We used to talk of the fair folk and imaginary things
and we still do from time to time
but now of the world and boys and sorrows too.
Everything eventually falls into some relief
and is known. Everything.
I do not want to die angry.