THE WORD ON THE STREET
is that in every inhale there's air
Christ exhaled, and forgotten
crumbs of that man from Nazareth
make their molecular way
onto your living room knickknacks,
bowling trophies, ceramic hands,
photos of old lovers you turn
face down when first dates
come over. This isn't really coming
from the streets, but from my grandfather,
who reads and reads and knows,
firsthand, of residue. World War II
left its silver star and purple heart
on his chest after the jungles left him
crusted in blood. There, he and his
fellow men drank from the stems of any plant
with a grenade's right cross, left bits
of calcium-him in New Guinea. Mixed
with rain, it made its way into grain, into bread,
onto a mother's plate, and passed'-
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