The Art of Carrying

When the house burned down
My grandfather ran to the neighbors’
And leaned on their front door
Put out his arms and looked down
The grey concrete firm beneath
The soles of his feet.

When his mother overseas had died,
My father went outside
Put out his arms
And leaned on the balcony;
The iron banister gripping heavy thoughts.

Tonight, at the library circulation desk
I think of how badly I want
To be held again
By a mother, a father –
And my hands pull out and I lean.