My grandfather began to cry
at Thanksgiving dinner when
my grandmother asked him,
“You remember how we met?”
He cried. They don’t know why.
He can’t keep track of his holidays
after two strokes. They think
he cried for a lost memory, like
something floating away. But I
was sitting next to him—I saw
Thoughts gathering then that
never made it out; visible but
wisps, like clouds further off
that manage to blot out the sun,
dark, thick clouds. And I wonder,
How terrible are those thoughts
without the words, the clouds
sititng heavy without release?
8-WEST PRESS 