Sweet. Woody. Smokey. Lint. That is how he always smelled. Each visit ended with a hug That got looser and bonier Until it got tight and shaky, Clinging to small moments As time pulled at the hems of his khakis. My grandpa told me He had dreams about touring the universe In a plastic lawn chair. He’d grip the sun-beaten armrests As the chair maneuvered through planets And soared through the star-spotted abyss. My grandpa told me Two men came to his family’s small home And told them they had 30 minutes to pack Everything they wanted to bring to the camps Because they were Japanese And they were dangerous. My grandpa told me You should always eat buckwheat noodles Because they’re good for your heart. My grandpa told me After he stated his name The farm owner said, “That’s too hard. I’m just gonna call you Dickey.” My grandpa told me To “go on” and join the dancing women At the Obon Festival Who moved in undulating circles In white silk kimonos Embroidered with red flowers. My grandpa told me He found his younger sister Lying half-drowned, face-down in a drainage ditch On the edge of the farm in Arkansas. My grandpa told me To wait. As I stood on a small beach on Lake Hodges With a plastic, neon purple fishing rod And learned to love fishing For the waiting. My grandpa told me, “You don’t let anyone push you around, okay? Be tough. Okay?” And clutched me to his disappearing frame. I said “Okay.” Not knowing that bent reflections of his past Had allowed him to see the future.
Neurotica 