Poem - Rubbed The Wrong Way

Up
down, black
on white,
we ghost the
name
we dare
not say,
for fear
of grandpa’s
heart
condition.

I think
it
remembers,
stores,
the blank
stares and
hidden-
behind-hands
expressions
of the
visitors,
beings
and
non-
beings.

On
the drive
home I ask
to see
an
eagle or
a
hawk and
only get
three
crows.

That
is a
blessing
when
god
has been
rubbed the
wrong
way.