Young lady, Luna
Diane, this shitty gift
of a black-assed poem
upon the birth of your baby
girl, is sadly the best
I think I can do. Of course
my sister wouldn’t agree.
Your grandmother
began parenting
as a teenager, too.
It was what she wanted
to do, raise babies
on slobber and hope.
Now the prevailing wisdom
is to wait until you’re forty.
I believe it is most wise
not to advise, but to live
and let live, empathize,
realize everybody loves,
works, and dies.
My Old Man used to say,
“You can shit me, but
you can’t shit yourself.”
He didn’t believe life
had any meaning, really,
at least not in the crowd
pleasing dogma of the church.
He figured we were here
for no particular reason
we could comprehend,
that our lives mattered
only to us. He was awed
by the miracle of existence.
It was the damnedest thing,
from the Grand Canyon
to the birth canal.
He was a pragmatist,
a self-taught historian
and scientist. He questioned
everything, the devil’s
advocate. Your great-grandfather
was a pain in the ass, a truth
teller who believed in justice
and unions—be fair or fight.
He taught me the best we can do
is take care of each other,
and that’s what mothers do best.
My mother, your mother,
your grandmother, my wife,
all mothers never leave
their children, and fathers
remain long after they’re gone.
