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.