My grandfather peels cellophane wrap
from a fresh pack of Camels,
taps one out, lights up,
and blows a perfect orbit above my head.
I rise on my toes and reach
toward a form that blurs
and disappears.
Why didn’t your sister come with you
on the boat? Where did she go?
In the windless heat and deep shadow
of a California orange grove,
his weathered hand gestures at the heavy farmer’s boots
that replaced a music stand. I glance down
at his feet, hoping for a glimpse
of my great-aunt’s face.
But all I see is dust
and a dust-choked
jimson-weed.
How long did it take
to get here from Odessa? Is it true,
what my mother says, that you brought
only those Yiddish songs you wrote?
He goes into the house and comes out
carrying a card-table and two folding chairs.
He sets up his chessboard in the green shade
of a citrus tree and darts from chair
to chair, playing against himself.
He doesn’t cheat. I watch him
nudge a knight, a queen. Grandpa,
when you were my age, did you laugh?
Did you dance? He swivels in his seat
and plucks a Valencia orange
that hangs on a branch behind his back.
He strips the rind with his pocket knife
and hands me a piece of fruit.
I eat it all, meat, pith, seeds—
the way the earth ate my grandfather’s life,
his sister’s. The way it will eat mine.
Juice streams down my chin. My eyes sting
from the sweetness.
