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My father says, with a laugh,
I don’t see color. He doesn’t say it
while looking at me. My father is
an intelligent man, a career man,
a man who would never cause waves.
My father is a kind man, an alcoholic,
a computer geek, a conservative,
an electrical engineer, and yet he doesn’t
look me in the eye – he doesn’t want
to make me uncomfortable. He would never
want to make anyone uncomfortable.
He is a good man, a stand up guy, saves
for the future. His father was a drunk, his brother
was a drunk and he became a drunk. He is American.
He achieved the American dream. Voted for Trump
the first time. I didn’t know my father until he told me
to leave the room when I was a child:
You need to find somewhere else to be.
I didn’t know my father until he pulled the wooden post
from my parent’s bed frame and threatened my mother:
It would only take one swing.

after “The Blue Dress” by Victoria Chang

I wear grandma’s collared shirt— it mostly hangs on
            a blue hanger in my closet, fabric continuing
to thin with time, beneath the earth like her body,
            as if I have worn her all my life.

I wear her ring on my finger, hold the metal
            she used to fiddle with, polish the diamond,
admire the band. Remove her when I wash my hands.
            Check to feel she’s still there. She held on

when leukemia wore her, through divorce,
            during the war, when she lost
three babies. Grief is wearing her
            shirt on my back like a haunting.

Grief brushes my skin like cotton,
            striped like her mother’s hand sewn lines.
I keep moving beyond panels of stitches–
            Her mother’s mother threads through me.

I’m writing stories for them, trying
            to fill days with her belongings. I never
heard her say goodbye. There is a hole
            in her shirt. There is a hole in me.

Carbondale, Illinois, May 1992

sound of shattered glass
whiplashed mother
in her long dress
muscles     tightened
one summer night

five college girls
in a Mustang
crashed       into her
Dodge Caravan
t-boned her       driver’s side
metal                   barrelling
into       belly
seatbelt               low
pedal                   anchored      to floor
she was alone       she held me

in her womb          I didn’t move

                        ***

Kept inside         the wreckage
until Paramedics            cut her out

she stood in the hospital room
pieces of glass         held by her belly

fell to the floor         when she saw my father
              standing in the door

Everything’s okay.      She’s okay.

I still hear the shape         of her voice         in me.