when he was my age, my grandfather would comb the scalp
of the forest for shells, then write letters to the families
of dead bodies he found.
dog tags, they were called, because war
makes humans animal. one time
my grandfather witnessed a soldier splitting open
a cow and stuffing someone inside its stomach,
using one live thing to suffocate another—
the cruelest way to kill. one time
my grandfather pushed me
away when i tried to hug him. one time
he said no too many times. one time
he said yes. one time
my grandfather disappointed me, and i think he wanted to
love me
but did not yet
know how.
when he was my age my grandfather won
the lottery and built a house
for his father. years later, after everyone
died, i visited and took
more time than my grandfather ever had
to ask what it means to have
a home. i shot
twenty-one photographs—shot—yes—captured—still
i did it anyway, scooped the soft inside of a history
almost mine while my grandfather sat
on a stool by the cart, closing
his eyes and
letting me.
last week i discovered the average lifespan
of an eighty-two-year-old man
is eighty two. i discovered if you split open
a vow, it will probably die. i am trying my best to witness
a life stuffed inside the belly
of a life—and still
i am scared
my grandfather will reach that dark door
at the end of the scalp of the forest trail
before i can account for it all. i ask my grandfather what
is the meaning of life, and in response, he sucks
a toothpick between his gums—shrugs—i don’t know.
what do you mean, ‘i don’t know,’
you’re eighty two, but he stares
at me, the space
behind, the dogs outside,
i don’t know, then he says: do you know?
this is the part where i stop
my recording and drop
the pencil and drop
the formality and stop
thinking, for once, about all our damn history.
my knees are knocking against the wood
grain of my grandfather’s
dining room table. he looks at me in silence
with those small freckled eyes.
on his knees rest hands
that know beautiful, terrible letters—
dear family—and the story—or pieces of it—
and the body—or pieces of it, too.
if, one day, i fall to the floor
and die, still
there will be words
spilling out of my lips. i love you
will be the phrase i will be saying
even when i’m not saying anything
anymore, even when my body is a shell
of a shell
of a body.
