My Fathers, the Baltic
Along the strand stones,
busted shells, wood scraps,
bottle tops, dimpled
and stainless beer cans.
Something began here
a century ago,
a nameless disaster,
perhaps a voyage
to the lost continent
where I was born.
Now the cold winds
of March dimple
the gray, incoming
waves. I kneel
on the wet earth
looking for a sign,
maybe an old coin,
an amulet
against storms,
and find my face
blackened in a pool
of oil and water.
My grandfather crossed
this sea in '04
and never returned,
so I’ve come alone
to thank creation
as he would never
for bringing him home
to work, defeat,
and death, those three
blood brothers
faithful to the end.
Yusel Prishkulnick,
I bless your laughter
thrown in the wind’s face,
your gall, your rages,
your abiding love
for women and money
and all that money
never bought,
for what the sea taught
you and you taught me:
that the waves go out
and nothing comes back.
