My grandfather told me,
with silver in his mouth and in his hair, about his
brother
and the greedy ocean that melted away
the blood they shared.

They sold his heavy winter coat three days later
because they knew he wouldn't come back.
It was tight around his growing shoulders anyway
and the cold wouldn't reach him again,
not if his bones couldn't find the way home.

When they turned east, to face their rising sun,
did you look out the cockpit window
south, across a narrow sea where your family
tried to forget you?

His stomach rises to where his heart would be
(if it hadn't broken weeks ago)
and freedom feels something like falling, sinking, flying—
like a million breaths let out at once.

His little brothers grew up without him
their children and their children grew up too,
and each missed whisper of his name
swept him farther away than the ocean could.