It seems as though all the memories
that I have of those times,
my Uncles and my Father
sitting on the floor in
Grandma Rosies' kitchen,
their backs against the buffet,
singing about worms and caskets that leak
in morose tones, and passing the jim beam back and forth,
they brought south with them, from frozen
Chignik to Oakland.The first, after Grandma, was my Father
and that was in twenty three. Then the Uncles
and their gear and families and those
memories that I mentioned earlier.It's a bad thing that, living
through other people's memories.
And although I don't speak the language,
I think I had better go
and see for myself.
That way, I think, I can tell
all about my memories
and warn others that they
do not have to believe them
or wish them true,
you know, like I have.