A poem’s final line: All forms, 
the man wrote, tend toward blur 
reminds me of my dad, how 
he recedes into dense fog
and rarely 
speaks to me anymore. 

Although occasionally a phrase 
or two comes back from that song 
he’d sing when he thought no one was listening: 
When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin’ 
along, there’ll be no more sobbin’ when he 
starts singing his old sweet song—

Truth lies in silence, he’d say
wearing that pensive look as he polished 
his work shoes early Sunday mornings
while I’d watch his face, waiting for him 
to say something true.

No confusion in those days over truth’s 
location. Truth was in my skinny legs 
that propelled me to the door 
when he came back from the laboratory 
reeking of test tubes filled with alfalfa juice. 
Truth was in his chemist’s slender hands 
that dropped briefcase and lunch box 
to scoop me up. That man who’d rise 
in darkness to lure the sun 
above the horizon, who later lullabied 
me into dreams. When did his shape 
begin to blur, his colors fade? 
How I miss him, my dad, that 
red bird of love.
                        

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.

In the windless heat and deep shadow 
of a California orange grove, 
I suddenly need to know: Grandpa,
how long did that boat take
to get here from Odessa? Where
did your sister go? When he gestures
with a weathered hand, I look down
at the sunbaked ground, hoping
for a glimpse of my great-aunt’s face.
But all I see is dust, and a dust-choked jimson-weed.

Grandpa, 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 from 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.