Luke Grecki

My eyes dart from yours. When we speak our words tumble into birds. A warmth follows me walking at night alone, in foreign countries you have memorized bridges and the worn hands of guards.

I spoke softly of barbed wire and hats, and the torn faces under awnings. As I hold your torch I hear my cry breathe, I find you at the bottom of stairs I have fallen down in my sleep.

You are standing on the edge of a grave. I am the dead.

Unseen territory where armies dissolve and flags become rags on homeless men. I have turned away from voices thick with pain, hands that have fried their last egg, eyes that wrinkle like stars.

You are no one. The heat of your silence makes me squirm. I laugh nervously. I am not sure of trees, or how my mother will get home.

I want to know the last thing you remember at night, the castles you see behind your eyelids. The German shepherd you pet 52 years ago, and the thousands of people whose faces you have forgotten.

My grandfather fed wild animals in the war. He sang and sobbed in his deep Russian voice. All I have is one cassette tape.