I wrote this in my group today with my girls

My father is the man who gets things done.
He is the man who gets called when the pipes
freeze,
he is the man they call
when they don’t know what to do.
I once heard him say that when a man
wants to show he loves his wife,
he cleans out the basement,
and I thought, “Shit, I hope not.”
This is a man who rests on nothing
but his own usefulness.
When my grandfather died
my grandmother called my dad
and he planned the funeral, everything,
down to choosing the casket,
but when the service was over
and he stood last in front of the open coffin
that contained the dead body of his father
he didn’t say a word, and I couldn’t see his face,
but I could tell that his back was very old then
and it was my mother who had to take his arm
and lead him away.

You Do

She said that when they moved away and she gave up all that work, she felt awful at first, “Like less of a person.” And she said her sister told her, “Do you hear the words that you are saying? Less of a person?” And she acknowledged how fucked up that was, how she was working through this, how that was                                                                                                                                   years                                                                                                                                          and                                                                                                                                          years                                                                                                                                         ago.                                                                                                                                                                                                     And then I thought, It’s giving up work that made you feel like less of a person? Not giving up time with your family? Not giving up time with yourself?                                                                         And I thought, Do you want me to be that? Even a little bit?                                                          You do, don’t you? You would say no, but you do.

To the Night

I want to tell you
that even though we wrestled for hours
over faith unwon
and outcomes unknown,
whether the back door was locked or open,
whether the messages had been checked
whether anyone had our number
whether anyone would call if they did
Were there shadow-fingers creeping around
unfasted doorframes?
Is anyone guarding your doors,
night?
I said, what have you, night,
but waiting
and pain?
But fear
an empty apartment
and silence?
I said, there is no rest for me here.
I want to tell you
that it seemed only a moment
a half-nap in the blue sack of night
before I woke and lifted my eyes
to the ceiling
behind which the sky was still thick with night
behind which I could begin to hope for a dawn
and I thanked the night in advance
I heard it
I want to remember that it happened
I want to know that someday
some almost-morning
you and I and will meet
all doors flung open
my coat and eyes will be unbuttoned
we will meet
and I will greet you, night, with a kiss on your starry mouth