At my kitchen table in Boston,

the rush of shuffling

a 52-card deck sends me back

to my grandparent’s home 

where I sat with Grandpa Charles 

at his maroon-stained table.

When I leaned over his cribbage board, 

we found ritual 

with a deck of cards

by dealing, cutting, scarifying

to peg up and down his board.

Before we ever shuffled at his table,

he knew the battle of losing

his brother to whiskey: slumped in a chair 

like a comrade back at the Battle of the Bulge

slumped in mud as bullets found skin. 

Away from blood, Charles flipped over 

a Jack from the deck 

onto his stained victory table.