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Father’s bicep tore lifting a blanket made from Grandfather’s skin. Unaware till when opening our bedroom window he bent lightning back to heaven. I failed you, he told me because he couldn’t keep hold of it. I failed you. I failed you. I failed you. I couldn’t cry with him. It’s ok to cry he said, do you know that? but there was no more lightning and Grandpa was a Martian. I remember Grandma asking, what happens after? He told her— when we die, we become like rocks. Things of the Earth, tree food. When I kissed his forehead there was no more lightning. He looked like a Martian and I couldn’t cry.
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