Sean Thomas Dougherty
A J for Joe
After Malena
J is the first letter of my dead
grandfather’s name.
I could pin a J to my office door
but what of it—
Why only a single letter memorial?
Instead, I could stick
a J from the far corner, let it rise
like a blue jay from a branch as I cry Joseph,
which is the name for another father.
The priests let the incense hover
like the smoke from a J, the one my boy Paul lit
at a party in Lowell, the night we got arrested,
& ended up in a Lawrence cell, & Manny
bent over crying for everything we never told.
J as in Jam Master jamming on the cassette
in my 72 Chevelle, through the black glass night
J is the first letter of Jehovah, of Johnstown, PA
where the flood waters rose high as Noah,
where my friend A jogs at night,
to jettison the JuJu her last lover
carved into her spine.
J as in Jersey, the small bodega
where Joe and I woofed red fish & rice after teaching tenth graders.
We sat out in the Spanish night
smoking menthols—
as fifteen year old girls pushed strollers, chatting
in El Salvadoran accents, the street of saffron
& sofrito, soccer balls & sequined letter chains—
not saying anything, except listen with our eyes
as the city turned blue & the streetlights turned yellow
& some girl hollered out a window, “Hey J—”
How her voice hung in the air, as if it was tattooed,
as if it was burned inside us.