Grandmother wove fine
filaments of glass to hide
her saw-toothed windows.
Our history is heat and light.
Grandfather’s fibers still blanket his
beat-up bookshelf, school-boy desk,
acoustic insulators, fabrics used en masse.
Synthetic cells diffuse and float.
Uncle, spin me a boat hull,
a fishing rod, instruments
of function and flight.
You said ground glass was translucent.
Vertical lines splatter
Venetian blinds, opaque,
Pollock-style.
The basement drips resin still.
Mother’s memory is
infrared wavelengths,
photographic negatives.
DaVinci dust, Dad.
A scroll of words, stretched
layers of parallel strands
harden and hang.
Lost names meld through prayer.
Brother’s heart is double-sealed
inside a Plexiglas® case. Blood
perforates, punctuates.
The den is filled with invention, 2 by 4s.
I was left with a Lucite chest
filled with curtains, veils, two lions
climbing a castle beneath this moon,
this welded family crest.