he descends. a box, with the old blues records
that taught you to say nigga like you knew what it meant,
heavy in his hands. he has just retrieved some final knick knack
reading glasses or car keys he almost left
behind. for sure it’s dark in that house
that was always too large for safety.
only the television and the small lamp
at the end table light the room.
probably a Bulls’ game on
Michael Jordan moving cross the court
like he still has something to prove or maybe O.J.
on trial. you cannot remember the details,
of whoever’s face it was that the camera caught,
or even the peculiarities in your grandfather’s expression.
you are young then. and though no one has told you
he is leaving for good you wish he would stay
a little longer. how your gaze lingers on the swagger
of his back walking out into the foyer,
the shutter of the door as he exits—
you know better now,
and learn to recall, most clearly, the fists
in your grandmother’s lap, the tightness of her jaw
as he bent down to kiss her where she sat
breathing like a gazelle run down.
you are still afraid once he leaves
how could you know then
he took with him the busted shadow
that lurked so long in darkness here.