Tough Poem

This is a tough poem; tougher than bone
but twice as brittle. Imagine me at the
edge of the tome, but more little. Imagine
bone cemeteries; imagine stories about
poems about stony
nights, water falling from sky.

Yes, I've been here before. The ground
(scat) devoid of sandals is a mongrel
we aren't diaspora anymore, but we are.
This is tough poem; it isn't easy
---it never will be---easy to explain. I'm
not trying to be obscure.

That's it, the Yonsei. Even 4th generation
Japanese have a word for it: belonging.
What am I? I man wearing a sweater w/
an old sweat-stained Cardinals hat & an
inkling I could do better, much better.

A reflex then, toward calming. Saying
"...but it's okay, everything will be
alright." And it will, of course---as much as
it wasn't. As much as it won't be: sadness,
you know, sadness already gathering like
a frown at the edge of your mouth: I should

have told you my grandmother is probably
dying. A sad thing, a sad thing. Nothing
absurd about it. As ordinary (and deeply
felt, meaning extraordinary, to me) as life:
"The wise man is ready to leave any time."

What about the wise woman? My grandmother,
wise, tough, deeply-feeling, real. More stolid
and solid and earthly / spiritual than I will ever
be. Roots in the deep soil, that one. A willow
tree with owl nests. A hurricane couldn't uproot
that old gal. But age will, I'll know. Ninety-seven.
97, ma. I'm going to miss you. I miss you already.