After torrin a. greathouse

After learning that there are over 132

distinct phobias & still no word for the fear of saying goodbye,

I think of my grandfather, eyes closed, muttering to

the blue figures haunting him, his hand reaching out

to grasp mine, shaking, like the dead clawing

their way to the light

hungry for a sliver of living flesh

wriggling under its grip.

The way the cassette player suddenly stopped like failing

lungs — like the way my uncle’s did, that year

in the hospital, mouth worshiping the unattainable breath,

face paling as we sat in despair & waited

for the sound of air caressing his throat.

Let me start again: my grandfather clasped my hand,

eyes wide, crescendoing like a fifth-grader’s orchestra,

each person playing their own soul’s melody

clashing and combining like waves to form their

harmony of cacophony—sorry, I’m losing the breath—I

mean, my grandfather held my hand, eyes awake &

mind still haunted. His hand gripped mine like iron

tight as the words my father tell me,

stabbing at the chinks, prying them open until

the sun hammers down, burning at the scabs,

wounds I thought I had said goodbyes to resurfacing

like a sober birthday with a New York Sour.

Let me start again — once,

my grandfather woke from a nightmare, clutched my hand,

stared into my eyes, and said Tamē kōṇa chō?