My grandfather was a winter man
a dedicated bird man
a serious joke man
an always-thinking man
who cupped tight pale lips
with tight pale hands
and mimicked
the hoots of — and
the trills of —
who strode with bowed legs
across heathery paths
who quizzed me on the birds
he wished to attract
and when we walked wanted
to know if I remembered
the difference between African and Asian
elephants & Bengal and Siberian
tigers—
I failed such tests
also the other ones—
how wooden chairs should be soundless
when scooched toward the
round eating table
or how butter bricks should only be cut
from one side, the one side.
I watched him for hours watch tennis balls
plop left to right on the TV—
this was preferable (he said) to soccer
to avoid chaos they should just give everyone
a ball
so that humans wouldn’t have to fight and also
he was not to be disturbed while
purposefully pushing the old typewriter
to return position and stabbing away
at memories that expounded
on the genetics of Siberian wild horses
and what WWII bombs did to big
mammals at the Dresden Zoo—
He typed timely letters chronicling
daily life, our names—the grandkids —filled
in after the fact
in all-capitals as if he had to look up
who we were
once the story already had taken shape—
or maybe he
wanted to emphasize our lived existence.
He never emphasized, though
the grenade splinter in his leg
or the trek he made on foot
back from the Russian front
or how my grandma would fortify
his morning coffee with breastmilk—
splinter of a man he was and
food coupons were scarce, she said
I had extra, she said, I may as well
get him fed
No, he never wrote about that,
the withering winter man
who strode through life not lightly
and tried to identify birds
to decide what was what.
