“Add more garlic
when you are in doubt,”
you almost yelled to me
that day—

when rocks shattered the window—
gray chunks of loyalty
to that big chairman.

Your shaky hands peeled those white,
papery bulbs, just like gathering
the shards of our window.

Brother wanted to open the door
to throw the rocks back.

You stopped him, handing him
more garlic, and said,
“Add more garlic,
when you are in doubt.”

Forty years later, I peel the same bulbs
and press them into my son’s hands.
He wants to throw the rocks back. I know.

I press the crushed clove into the raw scrape
of his palm, until the juice bites into his blood,
stinging him into your fading breath.

Add more garlic, son. This is how
we survive the noise.