GRANDSON ?

I told the page I’m a son and it laughed. 

Why do you go on and on… 

Look, I’m trying to tell my grandfather's story. 

And you’re not meant to tell it.  

Wine is a man's drink. It comes from the hands of men who

churn wooden buckets of grapes until the flesh tears 

and the seeds cling to the sides and the bucket 

becomes reddened.  

I took my first sip as a child and got drunk 

off a shot glass sip that found my tongue and throat

through the chance of his aged hands giving me a

red drink that was aged by him. 

Remember the grape trellises of green and purple?

I used to stare up at the grapes like stars when the sun peaked through. 

Too bad they no longer remain right? 

They are one with the earth now. No harm in that. 

When he passed, I honored the ground: 

I bought my first plant and babied soil till I felt 

as though my hands were his and we shared a tie 

through heaven and earth through each stem and leaf that grew.  

I planned to grow rosemary and basil till they grew up 

through turned dirt just to arise and birth 

to a sky all too willing to have them new. 

When he passed, I honored the ground. 

Your fingers didn’t foster that growth.

Oh, but it did each time I dug out the soil to kiss the earth. 

The earth’s never owed you solace.  

Oh, but it does each time I find his hands in mine.   

I asked the moon tonight if I could ever be him. 

The next night it answered when the full moon turned 

into a quarter moon as I gazed at the sky—the basil died.

I wonder if he was listening. 

Nonno, I bought my first suit. Nonno, the plant is going on three years. 

Nonno, I got this new haircut and I think it looks nice. 

Nonno, I know you can never know me as your 

grandson now because they lowered you into the earth, but I thought I’d try. 

I found this photo. Our jaw looks the same if you stare hard enough right?

Do we look at the same photo?

Yes, you know I beg to be right. 

Then yes, I guess you resemble him. 

AVE GOORBARRY ‘23

Poetry

“This poem is a part of a collection of three others. When I wrote it, I intended to explore my grandfather's death through new eyes and new identity. Looking back on this loss with new eyes, I wrote this piece.”