In the Air, To El Paso For My Grandfather's Funeral
Fir-treed mountains extend below me,
wrinkled raisins clustered in clumpy desert oatmeal.
I know that you like oatmeal.
You made it once, on your own,
on the phone with me,
much closer than we are now.
The water boiled quickly; you sister nagged
when it didn’t look perfect,
like when your mother makes it.
I think it’s sweet that she cooks
breakfast for you, still:
oatmeal and blueberry pancakes.
I’m thinking of you right now,
flying over mountains
that remind me of raisins,
remind me of oatmeal,
remind me of you.
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