For Tom Magee thrice in three nightsthe dead have come my waytwice it is youtwin cities accentrough and lowlike a globusin your throatI can hear the timbreyet I cannot carryback a word you say then last night my grandfatheran ancient apparitionif younger than hewould be aliveeighth of a millenniumsince his shtetl birth and allthat’s left is this bird boned specterperched in an adirondack chairas my father recalls to mehis generosity and even in sleepI know something iswrong hereeven in sleepI know this isa dreammy grandfather lesssentient thana sack of ragsmaybe ghostlike is the better term he was not my father’sfather […]
Coup de Vieux
by David L. Ulin
