Holding the small, blue comb, I use it to style the few hairs hanging on my great-grandfather’s head. He takes away the comb.

With my waist in one hand,
with the other, he points to the television.
Ships blast one another; in a grainy war
documentary, water sprays the camera:

“See that ship, right there? I was on it.”

I look at him, then back at the TV.
Guns sputter-like pots and pans
beaten together when baby Laurie
made music. Water churns.

I slip the comb out of his hands,
climb behind his head,
guide the teeth between his silvered
strands, letting fingers slip between their silk.