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Bittersweet mornings

tracing my father’s back

howling in summer grasses

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Total Immersion

The guy in the tight, black Speedo (shine over the crotch) is ready to dive; another Russian Jew, new to the community pool, unsure of how to say “Make way!,” makes his announcement nonetheless cannonball style: “I am here in your country . . .

Two Years

I can hear the black flies, the campfire, the light. At the chapel— the one with the green roof— my grandfather’s name is fading At night inside, the moths trapped inside the walls are dead and the book where I read: The men who moil for gold is misplaced . . .