Every summer you leave the city for the small town
family reunion. You’ve come a long way, accomplished,
you are sure.
Granny’s been slow-roasting hot-beefs all year
awaiting your arrival. She knows miracles.
Could’ve been the wedding in a flood;
cut coupons converted feasts for a family
breeding faithfully. Grandpa’s name
flying modestly on Mulberry. He knows miracles.
Turned Buick into a Bentley, sweet tea to bourbon,
Lazarus rose from 87 seasons of Midwestern snow.
Irish shared crops
farm-to-table by necessity.
Baked potato famine food:
wonder bread and boxed wine
still hand-picked and spread thin.
Remember to forget the three hands on your wrist
ticking like your tapping feet back in Chicago
Every winter we’ll repeat the retreat to Holiday Inn
thawing thickened waistlines and thinning faces.
Rest, men at the feet of mothers rubbing shoulders.
Granny began the laying of the hands
kneading dough rolled thick necks
there is always enough to go around.
All will be fed.
Summer ends and I return to the city realizing I’ve weighed myself the wrong way.
I must measure myself against their miracles, and return to the world
Dylan Weir is a poet. He works for Young Chicago Authors, was a semifinalist for the 2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Open Mic Award, and is currently getting his M.A. in English at DePaul University.