(for Nels Natus, 1896-1959)
In one version, your grandfather walks
purposely through the gently rustling field,
jaw clenched, mouth pulled inward,
holding in one upheld hand the finger
which the shears have suddenly removed.
In the barn, the sheep wait, perplexed,
half-kneeling, dark blood not their own
already seeping into damp wood and straw.
In another telling, he angles the gun
as though it were another limb, one eye
closed to the world of dancing summer leaves,
of soft breezes and silent water winding
back upon itself. He is an easy target
for himself, the burnt smell of flesh strangely
familiar, as the war draft notice flutters
on the kitchen linoleum, nearly rising into flight.
No one is left now to remember, or to claim
this as anything other than simple curiosity.
Yet in your mind's eye you can clearly see him,
his worn denim sleeve waving tentatively
to someone in the distance, someone whom
he cannot make out, his face nearly concealed
by a passing cloud of sepia and dust.
But you know it's him by what is missing,
the way the moonlight slashes through
unexpectedly -- once, then again.
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