April 11th

April 11^th

When I’m slouching in a cemetery in your army jacket,

clouds catching in green creases, in the tanned wrinkles

by Tata’s eyes, I’m remembering you.

By the time I was nine you had one lung and couldn’t

remember my name, but I held your mottled hands

and fell asleep on your couch in summer heat,

waking up to your three children and a priest setting a funeral

date. Now you’re back to dust and mist, the way we all begin,

but Tata’s checking his watch, remembering it’s your birthday,

and everything’s a sick parody of when you were here:

the red pickup truck,

the army patches,

the purple flowers scattered in new grass.

He’s melting in the sun between mossy headstones,

rough like gray stubble once planted on your chin.

Later I will drive him down the street where you lived,

right across the water where I used to feed ducks.

Your stucco house will have yellow windows for eyes,

and he’ll glance at me, chuckle, and say

“looks like some people finally

moved into Dziadek’s house”

and I will remember my father rolling out

dusty blueprints he drew in college,

your house on the hill nothing more

than lines and angles.