Family

 

She follows my directions
And the streets just get worse and worse;
This is a part of town
The way a tumor
Is a part of a dying man’s body.
The graffiti is all that holds the walls up.

The warehouse waits
Much as I remember it:
An ugly character
Doing ugly business
On an ugly corner;
A concrete poker face
Betrayed by no window
No ornament
No sign.

This is the place.

She turns to stare at me,
Her eyes wide
Cornflower blue:
Your grandfather lives here?

Girls with eyes like that
Have grandfathers
Who live in cabins
On the shores of lakes,
Plaid-flannel rocking-chair Santa Claus grandfathers
Who only shoot ducks.

I meet her gaze
From the other side of history,
And force a smile
That grants no absolution
For ghettos
Pogroms
Ovens
Or ignorance.

 

No, I say. He only works here.