He sets paper sailboats afloat on the pond,

combs the water with his fingers so the boats

move forward as if propelled by waves.

He looks up at the sky and wonders how

the sun manages to float up there on its own.

My grandfather asks him why he had to die

of starvation and exhaustion in the gulags,

why after surviving Hitler’s demonic reign

did they force him into the Red army

and promptly ship him off to Siberia?

But Stalin cannot hear him, nor can

he hear the millions of other dead

that have followed him to the edge of the pond.

Why do you not suffer, demand the murdered poets.

What kind of justice is this? they ask.

A purple butterfly lands on Stalin’s hand.

I will let you live, he whispers,

and releases it into the burning forest.

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