Grandfather

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


c. 2016

Submitted: August 19, 2018

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Submitted: August 19, 2018

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You may be a figment of my mind–I’ve heard you there, clear as air,

And never elsewhere. I thought I’d seen you in the curling photographs Mother kept

In the attic upstairs. The ones with burnt edges, the yellowed stretches of where and when,

And I am pulled into your fantasy again. Mother always said I had your hands,

Look now! They are the very same that trace the calculations and elations of poetry,

Crunching numbers and writing so technically–tat, tat, tat–but I am no rat.

I’ve heard the stories of how you drank and found nothing at the bottom of each bottle

But a shipwreck and a skeleton crew. I wonder if you knew the damage you hew,

Yet I find myself following you. Should I trace the ghost of your path in this world?

Toward some pretty Eastern European city where you once laid your step?

They substitute you for a hundred other faces and the photographs are faded now–

You may be a figment of my mind.


© Copyright 2018 Renata Sudek. All rights reserved.