on the inside of wrists, earliness
as a virtue. A clever tongue, to be a
happy drunk. The ridge
that splits our faces and green blue eyes
from southern Flint. Pens,
writing lists as daily prayers
we add to just to scratch off.
Smelling the trash
to know it stinks - Thus
an aversion to tequila, to
our knotted knuckles and backs.
Johnny Walker Black
with water on the rocks and
the snap, pop of seasoned knees.
A steady hand on a French press,
folding and refolding dogged ears
of Melville, of the gospel of Luke,
margins almost black with scraps:
poetry. Doodles. Hebrew and Greek.
I know why you married her;
how her grace tempers our nature.
And she told me how your father
pressed cash into your hand
as he hugged you. And you bookmarked
your favorite poems
with dollar bills for me,
threading our inheritance.
