my father said, of the Frisian word for hunger, but Id settle for memory, or grief, under the category things that undo me. Its a funny thing to think. Who would be the speaker if not him? His mother, maybe, holding hands in the hospital with his father after 76 years. Married the day after the war, when the stores had no windowsthe Nazis took the glass. The mourning doves might have the right vowels, or the red belly in the leafless dogwood, now winging through the sunlight peplummed through the pines, blue tarp peeled back on the cotton bales in the field beyond, Merry Christmas spraypainted in blue upon the white. Snowless, starless, a man goes on trial in France for helping refugees. Couldve been your grandparents, my father says, your Pake hid in barns, woke once to mouse feet scrambling across his face, but in France it was a 2 year old in a ditch, dying of dehydration, & when I look down Ive pulled the petals from the bouquet, & as Ive neither French nor Frisian nor courage, all I can do is sweep the body of petals into my palms, & pour them into the cathedral of water in front of me.