To the last

A canyon spans the years between us
and squinting across it
I cannot make out the details of the young face
that my grandfather once saw in mirrors

Grandpa, your voice wavers
as it echoes across that rift
reflecting a lifetime of vibrations,
and I cannot understand.

Your experiences exist still,
but only in your head,
and I can not absorb them
with any sense but my dreams.


My childhood home
lives in my attic,
in boxes

I remember the patterns of the wallpaper,
I could still get to my parent's room in the dark,
and although my family has never changed
I remember strangers
in their places

Last night I took those strangers down from the attic.
We emptied out the boxes,
and set everything up like our old house.
My whole family sat down together for dinner,
alone in my room