In a bathroom stall, we hoist my grandfather by the armpits.
He’s more spare parts than spaceship – arms splayed apart
while dad gloves the shit spitting down his father’s legs.
. . . . . . . . Years ago, Yankee stadium, the old man fell back into my chest.
. . . . . . . . For the first time I felt a body’s bones collapsing in on themselves;
. . . . . . . . his starveling eyes looking back at me
. . . . . . . . playing pickle with the seats and the sky.
Back in the stall, the two of them dancing in the piss soaked dugout,
I wonder if he wishes I hadn’t broken his fall.
The 7th Inning stretch is over,
the crowd calls for him now. We tie his shoes
prop him up presentable. Dad is firm,
no need to be gentle, he says.
His weight on our shoulders
for today.
How’s work? Not fine. What I mean to say, stranger, is I hopscotch
between burnt bridges. How many times have you hit the same wall
before abandoning belief?
How’s my love life?
What I mean to say,
is that when I see a beautiful landscape
I wonder what it would look like in flames.
I’m fine.
Dylan Weir is a poet with work in Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Chicago Literati, Red Paint Hill, and stages throughout Chicago. He works at Young Chicago Authors, is a contributor to Anthropoid, was a semifinalist for the 2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Open Mic Award, and is completing his M.A. in English at DePaul University
–Art by Rona Keller
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