Robert Moyer

Generations

He never held me, hands that cradled hundreds of lambs, slapped how many cows on the rump, move on, move over, held so many beers when he left grandma and me alone with my slightly-cracked uncle, did he ever hold him, console him after he sank with two ships in the war, never to fully surface again?  Did he ever clasp my father to him, my father whose slap is the only flesh I ever felt from him?

on the fresh dirt
covering the casket
my tears