Wednesday, May 6, 2009

My Grandfather

He sits by the door
Broomstick in hand
To kill flies with.

He plays checkers
With ten-year-old me.
Both stare in awe
Of a surprising win.

My grandfather,

He quits the armed,
Keeps the tough
And the women.

He lays there wounded.
Seven bullet marks,
Spurned but dear,
Share his blood.

My grandfather,

He sits on the floor
Knees between hands
And tells the same story
With eyes wide
Looking beyond me.

Who copies his posture,
Who follows his flight.

To my grandfathers, may you all rest in peace.