Figure
For Aupa
If only I could witness the way you packed your suitcase that night, pulling
Worn denim and flannel shirts from the chest of drawers, folded by your wife’s
Own hands. Walls would whisper of a man who drove to Florida for a lover
The day of his daughter’s birth. A single windowpane might reflect a portrait
Of Christmas Eve. No lights or tree, just a floor littered with empty jars of moonshine.
I remember a black ceiling, the way the house sank in the swamp. Things they found
Later: cash stuffed in pillows, cases of dynamite. I don’t know half the story.
What I do know, from others. My grandmother, red-faced off bourbon, explains
How you left her at nineteen, infant in her arms. No idea where you were. She didn’t
Tell anyone. She never told anyone until after you died. Now the fish in the pond breed
Without worry of sudden explosions, a poor man’s way of fishing. And the peacocks
On the farm across the way cry only from freedom. Rid of gunshots roaring through
The still night. Perhaps their cries reminded you of a child, then a grandchild.
If nature let you wipe your conscience clean, as it does with rain, you could have slept
With only the company of dreams. Maybe that’s too much to assume. For I know
Only the man I once knew. Each person speaks a different figure, a new stanza
For a life. I’ve searched beneath fallen logs, through thick moss. Your house, opened
Cabinets, paneled walls. Found every speck of dust, rotten insides of mice. But never
The middle of the story. The veil that covers your life.