by JW James.
my grandfather is still sitting on the curb his feet
in the traffic lane his feet that are waiting for a bus
my Ukrainian grandpa has disappeared with his breath
of boilermakers his breath of the land of his birth
muck and mire city of his birth Ternopil memory of
his father’s general store he is waiting to have his feet
run over by the bus such a destiny after traveling
by ship from Bremen to Port of Baltimore
to city of Binghamton traveling until Auburn, New York
where he is trying to get home where he is in the bars
and wars that have mired him down
his hands have planted trees in parks with the CCC
3 Sherwood Street where we sat on the porch
my traveling had not begun I was 13 we barely spoke
with his breath of the old world his breath
of kyshka and kielbasa of holubsti and pierogis
we’re still sitting there an inhale of life
an inevitable exhale of our deaths
we are breathing together to pierce
the heart’s
dream of life
*”The Ukrainian fruit stands have disappeared” –with thanks to poet, Patti Sirens