Ancestors

I search for ancestors in long forgotten shtetls
in a country that changed borders
in towns that have been razed

I have a photograph of a gravestone with my family's surname on it
"Raphael", it says, "beloved father"
My grandfather's father

The photo is curled around the edges, sepia toned
from an era when cameras were just beginning their reflection
of life's surfaces

Where is this gravestone and how many ancestors have none?
Fallen back from the shot in the head or the heart
into the trench they had dug
with their own hands
just like them to clean up

Maybe my great grandfather is buried in that huge graveyard
by the freeway on the way to New York City
We never stopped in the Ford station wagon
Traffic whizzed by on all sides
My father said his mother was there
My mother said her father was there

The fence had spikes
Inside gravestones upon gravestones
broken, fallen pieces, jumbled, strewn
the field of my ancestors in America

The light changed and my father picked up speed
pointed fence blurred into
one grey wall
of forgetfulness

My mother says when she dies, she wants to be cremated
My father is not sure, he stares ahead
at traffic, road blocks;
Winter is coming