Grandpa David Told Me Once of Carpathia, a Place He had Never Been
His hospital topped
a mountain, so we ran
the rest.
The radiation of the cold triggered
his pulse monitor. He popped
out of the covers beaming
as a toddler.
Safta too appeared,
wearing death for him
in the new wrinkles
and grayed hair.
He covered her
in the blanket,
rose on bent feet.
We went to the ice
cliff in red
blankets—he fell
looking at sky.
I wondered if this
would be death
or the next moment
or the next. I helped him
and his new hunchback
up
and David gaped
at the forgotten.
The mountain and frozen
waterfall and close
bursting stars combined
into blues—without blinking
he laughed.
I’d be happy to die
here. I hoped he would
despite the lonely
indigo of the Yukon
and Ukraine sky.
David stumbled into snowdust,
a greyhound chasing mouse,
also snow.
I ran too. The hunchback leaned
into working muscle. We ran through
narrow shtetls
where the snow dissolved
into wind. Dad, there, on the cliff,
arms bare.
David pounced, joined
the mouse sideways into
flat air.
Safta and Dad and I,
and everyone we could remember,
crowded
to await the telling
of a folk tale.
