Jack Ross Knutson

The Search

I search sometimes for the real me, trying to identify myself
Then I see I am just a process of creating roles
At times I see my father in my actions
At times I notice my mother in my feelings
In my assessments and observations at times
I see my grandfather smiling through
Burly arms, hairy like a gorilla
Kind smile highlighting a brick of a body     
I remember the last of him caught in death's door
Square body disjoint with that long lean door
Uneasy with the etiquette of life
Uneasy too with the etiquette of death
"Get me out of this Jew hospital" 
"Dad, remember Christ was a Jew"
"Yes, but they crucified him"
It was a long way from the stone desert of Småland   
Bony Swedish soil that left a hungry stomach
Dull stones burning in the pit of an empty stomach
To mixing stones, mortar, plaster
For a thousand walls, driveways and sidewalks half a world away
Sculpting bread from those mortified stones
Sculpting another facet of me
That I now assume at times like a sincere actor  
From a repertoire of roles