Men I don't know, part I.

My grandfather died during a bombing of Karlovac, not from the bombs but from the sound From fright He died on the stairs a bare courtyard in the center of the house Like a lung It took him a few days to get buried because of the continuous war What war isn’t continuous Human fear that eddies Refugees lived there and left their clutter, sour bedding pink rubber boots they used the woodstove there was no electricity and I wondered how far they had come and gone and if they were dead too The only thing not stolen from the house was my grandfather’s books Learned language He brought my mother butterflies pinned to velvet cloth for school projects He worked as a forester In a small village he met my grandmother They knew they would hate each other it was only a matter of There are pictures of Ivan in Boston when he came to America for a visit Knee high socks The bus from South station took him all over The canyons and birds Meeting Americans What did he think before he died My mother before she died Ivan spoke three languages I can’t picture his face I know he looked into mine before he died Wind chimes in the court yard The floor bends inward it will fall through eventually What a beautiful rare house a space that makes thinking magic Ivan took pictures of my mother and trees and the bare winter Always your daughter Pictures, boxes of saw-edged pictures Last thing he thought of before he died.