A wind-fist, he’d holler, a wasp
flying up from the burn-pile.
Don’t swat, it only brings on retribution.
Uncle Al was a wind-fist, scary old man
flicking cigarette butts off his porch.
His yard smelled of animal bones.
He lived next door, all alone. I dreamt
of a house of my own, small as a wren’s
held lightly in a Burr Oak’s elbow.
Dumb girl, he’d yell, watch the fire,
keep that spittle-finger up high, so we can
both keep the sparks under control.