full moon poetry
jagged and raw
bleeding from the wounds
of an ancestral saw
back and forth as it goes
through the passage of time
with these hands, grandfather
that cannot be mine
and moments move cyclically
wearing your flesh
to move as a reaper
to ceaselessly thresh
and how is it i cannot
remember my name
in a memory that was
never the same
and a child of a child
and who can i be
are there worlds grandfather
beyond this i can’t see
Greg Alston is a gardener, cook, father and some other things, too.
