My grandfather never wore yellow by Sara Jenko (Slovenia, 23)

​My grandfather never wore yellow
It reminded him of his hair
and being his father’s heir
Before they turned grey
and fell out like a
snake shedding skin
He hoped he wouldn’t
bequeath it to his kin

Sticking up from behind his ears
in every photograph
Hay-coloured giving fever
to those who recognized
The lack of slick
The lack of father

​Beaten black and blue
and fatherless
Fighting off sleep
White sheets stained
fluttering in the wind
Surrendering a battle
he never could

​At nine he thought cigarettes might do
Unfiltered blackening his lungs
irreversibly
Like what They did
to a local Jew

German ties you set to cut
with scissors used
to separate your firstborn from your wife
But too late to prevent
a particle from transcending
Generationally

​Time may have shrunk it
as a candle going out
You grew childlike at 80
Nevertheless it’s a theft
you never got a chance at it
your father’s corpse a mystery
and a little kid bereft





Sara is a writer, a passionate reader, and a student. She’s finishing up a degree in law while her greatest passion is writing. She’s had her work previously published in various literary magazines and is looking forward to releasing a collection someday.