all things

he limped in
soggy, sodden, and cold,
recalcitrant, as he recited
dirty limericks in a
barely recognizable tongue.
my grandfather was
a fighter,
but he'd lost one too many,
too many knocks,
and now he breathed
corn mash and fire
at us, the family,
gathered to celebrate the life
of the dearly departed,
the woman he loved,
the only one that made any sense
to him, she who could soothe
the savage beast before us.
Now this lion had no tamer,
and he began to knock us around,
his sons pushed him out the door,
and stayed with him in the dark.
The sky emptied itself squarely
upon him and his succour,
his brood, his clan, and
they too were lit now with his fire
and they hit each other and they cried.

Then, there was a flash,
and I could see him with my grandmother
they were dancing; and he looked over
at me, and he smiled and winked,
and I thought I'd burst with that feeling
That feeling of being a part of something
Intended by God himself.

I'll never forget how that felt,
like a left hook out of nowhere,
ever the fighter, my grandpa.