by Dylan Mahood


Had I met my great-grandfather

I would remember more than his hands, the way his bony knuckles disassembled bar taps like a soldier breaking down his gun.

Had I known my great-grandmother

I would remember more than the stale wheat thins my mother discovered

in her cupboard

and the way she shuffled

cards like a magician teaching me to play war

and I would know who she was before her mind became like the laundry chute in her house where my stuffed monkeys leapt like paratroopers

into the darkness.