Poetry, February 2024.

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My great-grandfather once hid under floorboards, 
mud-caked boots sprinkling dirt into his eyes, 
guns cocked and eager to take his life. 

All the stories I’ve ever heard recount his enormous heart.
Like the way he’d trick his grandchildren into pulling quarters from his ears 
so they could plunder the local candy shoppe.

Turkish soldiers once plundered his home, 
destroying all the parts of a life they’d deemed lesser. 
Deemed dangerous. 

I wonder how long he might’ve held his breath
while they sniffed and snarled at the air
like frothing, starving bloodhounds.

Armenian food is rich with cumin, 
so I’d bet the house was wrought with it.
I hope breathing it in burned the Turks tongues. 

But because they did not find him, 
my grandmother would have a father 
She’d love and, later, miss for decades.

Because they did not find him,
My mother would know a man who’d never 
raise a hand to her, or utter an unkind word. 

Because they did not find him,
I would have a resilient sort of blood 
to call upon in crisis.

I never knew him in life, but I owe him mine,
and I’d like to think he’d love his great-granddaughter;
She is kind without tolerance for closets or crawl spaces.