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.