My grandfather let me play with his hair,

long oiled threads of white from temple to nape

I could style into a cute bob that touched his jaw.

Then he’d dance for me, all elbows and knees,

before slicking it back again with the swash

of a Douglas Fairbanks come home.

His whistle was sharp as a factory,

two working fingers between his lips.

His polar blue eyes could scope an eagle

from across the bay, and deep in the hills

he shot the black bear I napped on, stroking silky

power into my dreams. It did not resist

my peachy fist.

Around its nubby ears I gripped the certainty

that I was safe, a child who could sleep

on the back of a beast.

published in My Edmonds News