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he is buried, my sister and I wear white dresses,
    the boys in white shirts and ties.
    We walk slowly through Nicholtown, a long parade
of people
    who loved him—Hope, Dell, Roman and me
    leading it. This is how we bury our dead—a silent parade
    through the streets, showing the world our sadness, others
    who knew my grandfather joining in on the walk,
    children waving,
    grown-ups dabbing at their eyes.
    Ashes to ashes,
we say at the grave site
    with each handful of dirt we drop gently onto his
lowering casket.
    We will see you in the by and by,
we say.
    We will see you in the by and by.

how to listen #7
    Even the silence
    has a story to tell you.
    Just listen. Listen.



after greenville #2
    After Daddy dies
    my grandmother sells the house in Nicholtown
    gives the brown chair to Miss Bell,
    Daddy’s clothes to the Brothers at the Kingdom Hall,
    the kitchen table and bright yellow chairs
    to her sister Lucinda in Fieldcrest Village.
    After Daddy dies
    my grandmother brings the bed our mother was born in
    to Brooklyn. Unpacks her dresses
    in the small empty bedroom
    downstairs,
    puts her Bible,
Watchtower
s and
Awake
s,
    a picture of Daddy
    on the little brown bookshelf.
    After Daddy dies
    spring blurs into summer
    then winter comes on too cold and fast,
    and my grandmother moves a chair to the living room
    window
    watches the tree drop the last of its leaves
    while boys play skelly and spinning tops in the middle
    of our quiet Brooklyn street.
    After Daddy dies
    I learn to jump double Dutch slowly
    tripping again and again over my too-big feet. Counting,
    Ten, twenty, thirty, forty
deep into the winter until
    one afternoon
    gravity releases me and my feet fly free in the ropes,
    fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety . . .
    as my grandmother watches me.
    Both of our worlds
    changed forever.

mimosa tree
    A mimosa tree, green and thin limbed, pushes up through
    the snow. My grandmother brought the seeds with her
from
back home.
    Sometimes, she pulls a chair to the window, looks
down over the yard.
    The promise of glittering sidewalks feels a long time
behind us now, no diamonds anywhere to be found.
    But some days, just after snow falls,
    the sun comes out, shines down on the promise
    of that tree from
back home
joining us here.
    Shines down over the bright white ground.
    And on those days, so much light and warmth fills
    the room that it’s hard not to believe
    in a little bit
    of everything.

bubble-gum cigarettes
    You can buy a box of bubble-gum cigarettes for a dime
    at the bodega around the corner.
    Sometimes, Maria and I walk there,
    our fingers laced together, a nickel
    in each of our pockets.
    The bubble gum is pink with white paper
    wrapped around it. When you put it in your mouth
    and blow, a white puff comes out.
    You can really believe
    you’re smoking.
    We talk with the bubble-gum cigarettes
    between our fingers. Hold them in the air
    like the movie stars on TV. We let them dangle
    from our mouths and look at each other
    through slitted eyes
    then laugh at how grown-up we can be
    how beautiful.
    When my sister sees us
    pretending to smoke, she shakes her head.
    That’s why Daddy died,
she says.
    After that
    me and Maria peel the paper off,
    turn our cigarettes into regular bubble gum.
    After that
    the game is over.

what’s left behind
    You’ve got your daddy’s easy way,
    my grandmother says to me, holding
    the picture of my grandfather
    in her hands.
I watch you with
    your friends and see him all over again.
    Where will the wedding supper be?
    Way down yonder in a hollow tree . . .
    We look at the picture without talking.
    Sometimes, I don’t know the words for things,
    how to write down the feeling of knowing
    that every dying person leaves something behind.
    I got my grandfather’s easy way. Maybe
    I know this when I’m laughing. Maybe
    I know it when I think of Daddy
    and he feels close enough
    for me to lay my head against his shoulder.
    I remember how he laughed,
I tell my grandmother
    and