Last Winter Man

In Current, Featured, Poetry by Angelina Eimannsberger

By Saronik Bosu

Silliest among reasons why
his death was my first unmaking,
was that my grandfather
was a gathered man.
A man of sure things –
his love: an arabesque
on the tip
of a nib
he’d just cut for me

a fresh cut nib
in an everscreened world
can pull that world
to a stop, if only
for a single breath.

That’s why
even the unruly covers
of his last night brought me
to my knees; his backrest
tipping over the edge
of the bed, was pulling the earth
out of orbit.

Better then, a December noon.
Yes, better, that December noon.
He sits in slight frost,
a clear river flung over his shoulder,
there’s news
of rhododendrons,
in the distance;
and around him, the pale glory
of his everyday.