1874-1959
Lost in fever
he struggled blankets off
tore at tubes
in his nose and arm,
mumbled something in German
over black nubs of teeth.
“Grandpa,” I said. “Lie still.”
But he wrestled me back,
and the nurses came,
five of us pushing a man
down on his deathbed,
because we knew what was best.
The raspy sound of his voice
still hurts.
Out of breath,
his hair wet against the pillowcase,
the Bull of Steinberg pleaded to me
from deep in his gut,
“Grandson! Make them go away!”