Grandad: Or, That Man in the Photo
I used to make up
stories how he lost
his fingers in the war
returning grenades,
or conquering
mountains with dynamite,
or, showing a softer side,
saving wounded
wolves from traps
when one bit back,
took them
a knuckle at a time.
I never guessed
it was to win
a girl, throwing fire-
sticks in July,
and losing track
which ones were lit.
A version on this poem was first published in RUNES magazine and was very loosely influenced (meaning mostly made up) by my own gramps who had, as a boy, blown off the ends of his fingers playing with quarter-sticks of dynamite (no girl involved to the best of my knowledge). A scene in my YA novel-in-progress, Mr. Bones, also alludes to this moment in my inherited history though in an entirely different context, one of the many possible scenarios I imagined could have happened (you know, before I finally discovered what had).