my grandfather would wake me
and i'd see his hand
mud from dark deserts
against my chest
pushing and beckoning me
into another day
and i would complain
quietly
in the most secret
places of my mind
and heart
not just complain
but curse the day
not knowing
the anger that consumed me
anger that lived in deep secret places
of my mind, buried in my heart
anger at my grandfather's son,
my father
for leaving me
without a clue
about my next meal
about my next bed
about my next home
for taking me
to the liquor store
and sharing his whiskey
when we were alone
to bars
places i swear
i will never take my children
and of course
i would obey
my grandfather's hand
because he fed me
gave me a room
a home where
my grandmother gifted me
with tortillas, coffee
salsa of chile pequin and garlic
gifts i swear i
will give to my children
but mostly
i obeyed because
although i didn't know it then
his desert mud hand
the one that had raised my father
that had topped onions
picked cucumbers
built homes out of old train cars
instructed me on the holiness
of roofing
carpentry
of hammering a nail
in two strokes
had invited me
to a life I did not know
and would have otherwise discarded.
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