For a moment his poetry makes me think of Chuang Tzu’s cook of Wei. His knife and perfect skill. Feeling the path between flesh and bone. One with blade. One with beast. One with blood and dead oxen.
The book is Wright’s, Black Zodiak, pages marked with a candid black and white image of my mom and grandparents walking away. No thought of legendary Chinese cooks, American poets or unborn family.
Grandpa O had a bit of a mean streak. Slightly unpredictable. A personality best kept sober. Or so I’ve heard. He owned a Texaco station. Handmade a fiddle. Invented a few things and sometimes painted pictures.
Somewhere there’s another photograph, all white space and big black smoke. The garage that my mother accidentally set on fire, burning to the ground. I wonder how that went over, marking the page and going for a second cup of coffee.