Grampa's Liquor Bottles

Stiff in our black funeral ties and jackets,
my brother and I crept out the kitchen door,
escaping the crowded family room, far
from the somber drone of voices and Grampa,
hands positioned on his motionless chest.
We crossed the yard, went straight for the corncrib,
and nosing behind a cobweb-covered plow
we found a row of bottles — ancient bottles,
green, and when held to the light, glazed with dust.
We lined them up along the window ledge,
and from the other side of the barn threw rocks,
most landing in the green sea of cornstalks
beginning to brown in the late July heat.
Before long we remembered our 22's,
nearly forgot the funeral inside.
We took turns exploding the thick green glass,
wondered aloud if Grampa would get buried
with his false teeth in or if they'd stay
in that bathroom jar, magnified forever
to the size of horse teeth. The bottles shattered as if
from inside themselves, sides bursting out, necks
toppling over, and suddenly Dad was there,
standing beside us. Our hearts jumped with fear,
our faces braced for rage. What happened next
mystified us, because it was Dad's dad
that lay dead inside, and because of that death
we came to the family farm, full of grieving
strangers and unfamiliar family members,
and Dad stood almost unrecognizable
next to the disused corncrib, his face pale,
so pale in the morning shade, and expressionless.
"Make sure you pick up every piece of glass,"
was all he said and headed back to the house,
sparing us our awkward imitations
of grief and letting us get back to the work
of boys with mercifully protracted childhoods.
We lay down our guns and lined another row
of Grampa's liquor bottles under the sun,
let them fill with light one last time
and glow with phosphorescent life, and then
we shot them to slivers in the oily black dirt.

Richard Newman
Borrowed Towns
Word Press

Copyright © 2005 by Richard Newman.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

REMEMBER TO SUPPORT POETRY DAILY'S GENEROUS SPONSORS... Sponsor PD!