poem: my grandmother’s (mystical) first love

he was the type of boy
i dreamed about saving —
a pretty wraith, oddly colored:
black hair, black eyes —
a mad remembering
between us, when i sat
in the soft shitting yellow
of his apartment, his face
rewording, compressing—
like a poem in the physical act
of being written, moving
quickly backwards, the meaning
skittering over itself
with braver, bolder attempts.
he was the spirit hung in airplanes:
the battle of britain, the finest hour,
the radio address — he was the cold moving
under my legs, the iron curtain
crashing down,
over Europe, over my breasts
and stomach, the skin
pink and cold and feminine,
wrinkling into old age,
the sex silent and good
in the turned-off room.

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