Uncle Pappy told me, Don’t police your happiness, &
sipping cider at the potluck, I grin till I spot the empty seat.
Today my mother did a load of laundry & when I tell her
I’m proud, I mean it. The numbness hits my father two days
after it shredded me—I reassure him that tomorrow will return
the pain whose loss we still fear more. Billy Bob said,
He died & I’ve never trusted happiness since. I try
to tell my mom it’s not the sorrow alone that tethers us,
but, too, the sparklers, the bear hugs, the haiku. At every
table & in every theater, I will fill the empty spaces
with my broad-shouldered better, bitter sage.
O Mom & Dad, please stop picking at your stitches.
Think of us sunburned & screaming in the sprinklers,
our faces smeared with strawberries, not blood.