by Cathlin Noonan

And even this new detail doesn’t bring you closer
to me and still I do not know my grandfather’s face
only a shadow scent of oil on skin and Barbasol
the wrinkles of a neck aged to a gentle drape

where I’d rest my head in his shoulder’s
crook when he carried me

I rewind back four years from there to Missouri
my first minutes of my first day the first week
of March and still the snow falling faintly
across the city outside that faded hospital room

where you gave me the name
I refuse to let go of

Noonan told them the whiskey was for personal use—
archived scraps dug up to awaken the shade
our connection two ounces found in a beer glass

of the birth notice I fail to find for you
your first minutes are lost
between the newsprint and what’s left

I’m wondering if I can somehow crawl you through
this life again catch you in the moment
of your first step or when you meet your girl
walk you to the window on that gray dawn

to watch the snow faintly falling
both of us reborn

—
Note: Lines in italics pulled from a 1940 arrest notice for William J. Noonan who was accused of selling liquor without a license.