[net.poems] For Great Grandfather who died alas of drink

vestal (03/26/83)

	Well, why not? Everyone dies of something.
	She died of old age, three husbands
	and your twelve children.  So much plenty
	took its toll: she flickered out
	at ninety-nine.  You'd been gone for years
	by then, and no one knows a thing about you
	save you sired twelve bairns and died
	hungover.  Not much to go on, is it,
	all these years later?  Just your daughter's
	fear of liquor and your grandson's thirst.

	Mine too, come to that, rejoicing in the snap
	of the chain, the wild lunge for freedom.
	After the third ounce of rum I howl for you
	down the lost years, wondering what your reasons
	were.  Mine, I tell myself, are more complex.
	I tell myself, like beads, but your laughter
	drowns me.  Bring me your shepherd's crook,
	MacDonald, whistle up the dogs.  I've come back
	to the fold, old ancestor, to clink glasses with you.

		-- Kathryn MacDonald
		   (Seattle Poet.  Appears in Poetry Northwest,
		    Floating Poetry Gallery, Aquila, Madrona, 
		    Washington English Journal, Puget Soundings,
		    Bitterroot,....)

		    Can anyone come up with copies of some
		    of the Cat Craven stuff?