for my grandfather, Sydney Levine, on the night of his death
In the end, his bird-like hands
Clutched to his chest, skin like vellum.
It is on that parchment we write our stories,
On this man we weave our tales.
He is our silent audience, breath shallow,
As we scrawl our ephemera on his brow,
Smooth his forearms with trips to mountains,
Brush his hair with strains of pan flutes
Wet his lips with movies we have seen
Hold his hand and sing to him,
Summertime and blackbirds,
His mouth is open like a chick
And we feed him tidbits we have rehearsed.
This is the ritual of waiting
This is the ritual of incorporation
No time and all time, space and sighing
We create tales of mystics and magic carpets,
Astronomers and mathematicians.
We layer our memories onto this man,
Palimpsest of histories, thirties ditties
And choked-back tears.
He is becoming something other.
And then he is gone.