I THINK OF MY GRANDFATHER by Lyn Lifshin • Cleaver Magazine
on a cramped ship headed toward Ellis Island. Fog, fog horns for a lullaby. The black pines, a frozen pear. Straw roofs on fire. If there were postcards from the sea there might have been a Dear Hannah or Mama, hand colored with salt. I will come and get you. If the branches are green, pick the apples. When I write next, I will have a pack on my back, string and tin. I dream about the snow in the mountains. I never liked it but I dream of you tying a scarf around my hair, your words that white dust