Most came from Aadrian, the location of her two other
brothers then unknown or secret. My grandmother told
me Aadrian was at sea the whole war, a merchant marine
—colonial, regrettable. I read in translation, after she
passed, that he sailed to the Horn of Africa, Argentina,
iced straits that belong to no country—what a state
to be out there, not a possession of any sovereignty.
In this letter, egg blue and tattered, he wrote of his
cargo ship carrying horses carrying horses—the horses
in transit were pregnant. I say were with intention
as the ship bridled through a hurricane and the vessel’s
violent pitch prompted many mares to deliver
their incubating foals—many in panic crawled out
onto the deck only for the sea to swallow
them. My pickled beets’ garish pink bleeds
onto the cutting board—here I consider that true violence
for my grandmother was implied, in the absent glass
of storefronts, in the spoons children carried like dolls,
ready should they have found breadcrumbs or a bit
of bacon, to scoop the scraps into their vacant mouths.