Man Quietly Gathers

Man Quietly Gathers / Joshua Alan Sturgill

My grandfather fell into a fire.
My grandmother died longing for home.
I am searching for pearls
among their ashes.

We bow reverently to age;
faces fall toward chests.
Failure covers everything
so we gather into ourselves.

But I insist there is a Sane Man
who, every day, drinks
a little of his shame
and a little of mine

for my sake. While I sift ashes
for a truth that is a stone, for a cure
that is also a place, somehow
unrememberable

— is it the Land of Memory?
My grandfather portioned his drowning.
My grandmother gripped her cigarettes
more defiantly

after the diagnosis.
But the Sane Man quietly
gathers up his desires
and knows what they are for

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