My grandfather gives me a tour
of his urn, takes my coat and hangs
it up next to the family portrait
and his gun
meanwhile I write:
how his spine straightens itself,
how the liver spots empty out.
He lifts me on his lap and tells me
about our kind. With Hades in their
How the hole between his eyes
blots up the ink and closes.
My granddad laughs. He doesn't believe
my ballpoint pen also has a pellet
that can be shot.