Bullshit

The first word you taught me was “bullshit,”

And you roared with laughter

As I ran along repeating it to my parents.

My sisters, my cousins,

You gave us each the unique gift

Of vulgarity early as we could learn it.

I was smart because I’m Irish,

And you made sure I told my

Guinea father every chance you could.

You possessed such a sacred irreverence

About you, Grandma,

I think I might have been ten years old

When you first showed me

Silence of the Lambs

And began your customary offering

Of Pabst Blue Ribbon,

Which of course, was bullshit.

You drank wine.

Was I seventeen, then?

Has it been that long?

Longer still since we last played cards,

Gambling with candies, or peanuts, or pennies

On that tile-topped table

Where Grandpa told bad jokes

And you served too much supper,

And too much dessert,

And too much cheer, and love, and warmth?

We all swore you cheated,

Never losing a hand, as I recall,

But those accusations were bullshit,

Because you really were that good.

And you swore every curse

Grandpa wouldn’t.

“Shall I stick a broom up my ass,

And sweep while I go?” you’d say,

Giving your time at shelters for

Battered women, and the homeless,

And to your neighbors and friends

And your family.

Your time was everyone’s time,

And it’s bullshit there wasn’t more of it.

Your rasping, hardy laugh

Stood cornerstone to a sprawling family,

Matriarch to your clan,

As tough as you were generous,

As strong as you were tender.

I know you couldn’t bear the fear

Of losing your razor sharp wit,

Or your humor, or your mind,

Or yourself,

The way your sisters had,

Fading into a wandering fog.

You wanted to go on your terms,

And in a way you did,

I take after you like that,

But I still think it’s bullshit

That I can’t hug you anymore.

I learned to give a hell of a massage

Rubbing your shoulders for you,

And that’s proved to be

A pair of Aces up my sleeve

With women.

And I fall hard every time

One of them tells me

To clean my shit

The way you told Grandpa

“Clean your god damned desk, Joe!”

In the hopes she’ll be

A perfect storm of sass,

And strength, and fun,

And adventure,

And deep, deep caring,

The way you were for Grandpa.

I think there just might be one, but

It’s bullshit there aren’t more like you.

It was bullshit when that hospital

Took two weeks to realize

You’d had a heart attack.

And it was bullshit that your ambulance

Got hit by a drunk driver

On the way to the next.

And it’s bullshit that surgeon

Perforated your aorta.

And it’s bullshit that none of us

Could save you that day,

The way you had saved us

And so many others.

And it was bullshit that you died

On Friday the 13th

Because your taste in horror films

Was far, far classier.

You were a hell of a woman,

Joan,

For Joe McNally to marry a protestant.

You should’ve lived forever.

It’s bullshit that you didn’t.