At my grandmother’s funeral, I closed my eyes
To remember the way she would watch me
Practice free throws during golden hour in her
Driveway, after taking a break from questioning
If all of the clocks in her house were correct.
What luxury to live in a moment where you can
Look at the time & not worry about destroying it.
The tiredness of my eyelids turn into weeds
Rupturing through broken cement. The thrashing
Of words into the air off her tongue. I wish my
Arms weren’t so thin, so they could hold all of
Those memories, because I’d be a liar if I told you
I could remember if the color of her outfit matched
The tint in her cheeks, whether or not her hair was

A garden of balled fists. I’ve started appreciating
The gimmick Dee Brown performed when he
Covered his eyes & dunked in a darkness he sculpted
Himself. As the APOE gene in the fat of her body
Was metabolizing into her blood, my grandmother
Watched the folks in the photographs on top of
Her bookcase disappear into dust. I used to say
She watched me shoot hoops because she loved me.
Now, I know she was only out there because the
Sun was the one clock she trusted. I always
Convinced myself that Shawn Kemp should have
Beaten Dee Brown, too. I’ve started appreciating
The ability I have to transform a funeral into two
Bodies doused in early afternoon’s gold.

He was so much more than a 30 & 30 record / More than Oakland
falling into the Pacific Ocean / More than fingers like Thelonious Monk’s

piano ivories / He was sick / a flu bug of finesse running through his
golden blood / The way he curved his body could’ve prevented the

Columbia Disaster / When he was in the air / I forgot about the War /
if only for a brief second / Can you imagine what would have happened

if Icarus’ wings weren’t melted by the sun / Twice / You ever see someone
crowd surf on God’s back in the heat of a Georgia spring / He could put

a match between his knees & make it strike / He was the prince of untouchable
heights / No need for championship rings because his teeth were cut

from diamonds / If the guile of a perfect dunk / was a pass through the legs
off the backboard / it was called J-Rich / When he descended towards the rim /

we knew he was coming back / because a king can’t leave his kingdom / without
everyone kissing the floor beneath his toes / upon his triumphant return