Small chunks of me fears that the schizophrenia
affecting grandfather will soon afflict
me, and visions and voices will
snare like vicious steel small-
game traps, and I
will limp
through life,
traps snapping and
clutching, my open wounds
leaving a splotched trail of blood in
the fresh snow. Though I know it’s not always
genetic, I hear the hunter’s steps, the dog’s howl.