C-9

C-9  (present)

My grandfather fled the Bolsheviks,

typhus took his Sarah.

Undulating grave stones some toppled to the ground,

Limestone hieroglyphics, a message of the dead,

In loving memory of the beloved,

twelve years later my mother followed dad.

Permanently etched in granite,

the row furthest from

the church parking lot,

a life encroached by grass.  

Grandfather fled the Bolsheviks,

typhus took his Sarah.

He brought his sons a new life, 

Depression stalked the land. 

A creative spirit in a factory job now lies

two rows up from the church parking lot. 

I place my finger braille like, on his stony plaque,

slowly feel death’s grid position

C-9

An artist died a pauper far from his promised land.

No name or date in memory of.

My grandfather fled the Bolsheviks

typhus took his Sarah.