| THE WORD ON THE STREETis that in every inhale there's airChrist exhaled, and forgottencrumbs of that man from Nazarethmake their molecular wayonto your living room knickknacks,bowling trophies, ceramic hands,photos of old lovers you turnface down when first datescome over. This isn't really comingfrom the streets, but from my grandfather,who reads and reads and knows,firsthand, of residue. World War IIleft its silver star and purple hearton his chest after the jungles left himcrusted in blood. There, he and hisfellow men drank from the stems of any plantwith a grenade's right cross, left bitsof calcium-him in New Guinea. Mixedwith rain, it made its way into grain, into bread,onto a mother's plate, and passed'- |
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