Monday, October 10, 2011

A Poem

Great-Grandpa, 1942

My grandmother's father had small, brave hands.
They decapitated chickens, churned butter to gold
and cut free the corpses of German deserters
hanged from the trees like black cocoons.
I'd like to ask him, Were you never frightened?
But of what? he would say, sounding like Grandma.
I was ordinary.  Who would notice me?

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