Daddy tells me twenty-two is not too old to change
but he lived when change was only a thing for a man.

He was a strong man: hands tougher than leather, calloused
& cruel, but he ain’t raised his hands or voice outside a church.

My mother has raised her hands to praise that same God
but feels the shake of an alcoholic’s bite, tremors of the faith:—

I’ve learned a lot from these woods, like how after church we practice
sinning, how there’s no hunger like eating, tongue tying the smallest of it.

I’ve learned the land, learned to spot the dead from vultures’ circle,
to tell a hollow log from a rotten one, where to allow the feet to land.

I’ve seen creeks & how they’ve been torn up from generation to generation.
If you look close, you’ll find beer cans from my mom’s youth scattered about

the swinging rocks. I think how she used to be a dancer & now she drinks
so much that the whole world dances for her. Sometimes, in my crude

& uncalculated self, I dance too, feeling my fingers grace God’s Earth,
grabbing at Heaven & if I show my mom, she shows me how free

the hands can be: how free to reach, to hold, to hurt. She shows me
all I deserve, shows me how God shows His mercy. Praise Him.