309/365 Kay L

Hitting balls at diggers,
repeating motions from

cage-to-aide-to-arm,
a volley of offense

to teach body
memory, automatic
dive-and-roll

for the ball just
out of reach

Your hair never moved
jaw tight as wire

eyes black as referees'
stripes, only later did

your hair turn
white as my own
mother's.

308/365 Jim H.

Kindergarten: you drew eyelashes on your crayoned self-portrait, but
boys don't have eyelashes I knew at five.

Sixth-grade: you said something that drew from me a slap
across your pale-pink cheek, my first and only.

Adulthood: not at class reunions, what has become of
your milky-skinned black-curled head?

307/365 Mrs. Gilbertson

Isn't even your name anymore, having
divorced, remarried: not so usual in
our town. But you were/are unusual,
strong-jawed English major, blue eyes tiny
as buttons deeply set in your
pale-freckled skin, hair teased into a
wasp net, thinly brown and banged.
Serious about literature: I copied that.

Thank you.

306/365 Davich

Broom-sized mustache, non-Scandinavian nose

big as your personality as you bounced

white-sneakered from gym stage to court

holding forth with constant motion

tossing basketballs against

walls, wrestling mats, backboards, kids' heads

nervy energy a feature of an assistant coach

wired to tease kids from

seventh to twelfth grade, ready-or-not

305/365 Addy

Good friend's first
raved-about grandchild: whip-smart, bird-thin, face wide
as a garden, eyes brown as earth,
not shy with adults,
determined to vamp in
dresses with beads
and feather boas,
using every
gift from Grandma,
her best legacy,
telling us all your
energetic opinion
right until the end

304/365 Jack

Uncle
almost more now than in
the half-known past of half-siblings
and mystery

Generous spirit of likability
spread over me in blue-eyed chuckles
finger-splays and head-nods: full attention.

What binds us is story
not even a shared story: it unravels
in your ninth decade
my father's eighth

not
too
late