Simon Brod
Grandfather’s Ghost
1.
Feeling my way inside,
past injuries, scars,
childhood mistakes,
I found my grandfather’s ghost
jabbing me in the ribs.
He must have always been there
but I hadn’t noticed,
only been dully aware of the clamp in my shoulder,
the load I was lifting, day in, day out
with my neck and jaw.
Now, all at once,
everything hurt—
white heat stabbed my breast,
ice cold stunned my lower back,
I was winded, deafened,
legs strained for support that had gone out of reach,
right cheek and brow spasmed,
ribs cramped
to make space for one last gasp
after his fall from a chair
in a prison cell in Vienna
in 1938
where he’d tied his own knot.
I said I see you now.
Can you please let go?
2.
The scenes of his life are grainy.
A small town in a flat landscape.
Trees. Fields. His father,
a maker of clothes for farm work.
Ten brothers and sisters.
No money, but warmth, laughter, song.
He craves colour, goes on a journey.
On foot. To the city.
Quick to charm,
he parties, studies, marries up.
Her uncle gives him
a fancy apartment, a job:
movie agent.
Looking down from the balcony
at the small people below,
he must have thought
Just like the movies.
Happy ever after.
3.
Now the score gets thicker, heavier.
Suddenly it’s laden with double basses.
A jackbooted black-winged deus ex machina
grabs him by the scruff of the neck and I’ll bet
he felt it coming, he’d been expecting
something like this, sooner or later:
the moment they laugh in his face and he chooses
to offer a knowing look to camera,
eyebrow arched, hands open,
corners of the mouth turned down.
They’ll write a reason to arrest him, one that’s in character:
he played the parvenu, or settled a debt,
or tried to subvert the future. Again.
Like it was a habit.
They have him in prison, in shadow, in silence.
Words don’t work here. He’s writing his last:
a letter to grandma. It’s tame for the censor.
Keep me within, in your loving remembrance.
Our sons, our sons, are better forgetting.
4.
There’s no last scene.
Officially, your death
was suicide.
I believe I see you
taking the lead,
eyes bright, cheeks hot,
carried by your own charisma,
playing the hero,
talking your way into a deal,
giving yourself up
so grandma and dad and his little brother will live.
But what would a camera have shown?
Were you calm or trembling?
Was it all your own work
or was the scene set, were you taking direction?
No, it was your idea. You called the shots.
I’m sure of it. Always the go-getter,
the daredevil, the eater of fate.
In natty clothes, now rumpled and worn,
pockets empty, bright-coloured braces
still peeking out from under your jacket.
I can’t imagine you
simply waiting,
doing nothing.
I can’t imagine you
not being able
to find a way out.
5.
What anger got stuck in your throat that day?
What unfairness, what terror, did you try to swallow?
What never-said words?
I cannot give them voice, only know
how your ribcage locks like a prison,
jaw tightens like a slip knot.
All I can do is bring you rest,
arms around the base of your shoulder blades,
the small of your back.
I touch your jawbone, the sides of your neck,
hold your feet,
take the strain from shocked bones,
feel them soften,
fill my lungs like a newborn
and live.