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. Comments are closed.
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