I think you bled out under a palm tree; or maybe that’s Jesus / Isa but I don’t recall the full bloody story besides the revolutionary aspects: freedom fighter, drowned by salty somebodies envious of how alive you were. Or maybe that’s me imagining / projecting. I do know that you had siblings torn into pieces by bombs in the distance / or maybe that’s Hiroshima & I am recalling fourth-grade history (I sat next to Nora E.) from my red American Studies textbook. Maybe you were not eviscerated into dust but rather given a worthy goodbye next to your mother & father / no, wait they were already dead so I’m wrong in that sense as well. I am an unreliable narrator / am I even a narrator? I wasn’t there / except maybe in my nightmares. I do remember the way my father told me the grim story / truth, I mean. He said it like I should be happy I am not dead / a ghost in the sloping Kashmir valleys of lakes stained scarlet. Two minutes prior he called his own father (I think he survived a war) & spoke about sports games / does my father like the Eagles? I think so. Something about flying & my grandfather laughs in no language / but blood. It is bloodshed that binds us together, he says / after red marks grace my face. Father strokes / stings them gently. Perhaps I am his palm tree / & he is dying before me.