Taproot

Audrey Gradzewicz

In our family tree, men lasso their necks
to branches, to pipes in janitorial closets, 

bowling alley break rooms. Not my father.
Another man took his place, like the ram

did for Isaac. In the miracle of his blind
drunk life, my father haunted payphones

to tell me that he was dead, please send
cash now. Or else bus tickets. Or else.

Once, he stabbed his roommate, then bled
out himself. So you understand. Bodies

can be tricky like that. I try to tell my students
how Old English bled into Middle English,

into the words I’m speaking now. Youngblood,
what can I give to you but ash, thorn.

Audrey Gradzewicz is from Buffalo, New York. Her poetry appears in such journals as Thrush, Ninth Letter, Mid-American Review, The Puritan, and Smartish Pace.