i wish we could’ve helped him find//at least coordinates or–

there’s a black hole where his past should be
uneven hammered imprints on a slightly bent A4 sheet
of an old olympia typewriter that made my knuckles ache
when i learned typing first

he on the kitchen table,
papers strewn across the flower-printed cloth,
there were no photos of—

he with mom&dad?
siblings?
an ocean weekend
with a shovel/bucket in his hand?
non-existant.

mom peeled new potatoes,
let them glide into a water bowl
so they don’t get brown// roots, ocher earth & straws
of summer hay blown upon her hair
carefree// long forgotten

in the evenings he watched documentations on tv,
WWII, a 5th beer in hand, life blurring
uni//formed young men on the death row of a dance
no one can win,

he never told us anything

a slice of tree, uprooted from a land
that he tried hard to– &i cannot say for sure
–either remember or forget

it ate him//finally
bent deep over the keyboard,
typing//typing
from the scaffolds of a life
devoid tonality,

only the fingers move
still//
in a weird beat
.

Grace has us write ancestors at dVerse today… join us when the doors open at 3pm EST…