Grandmother

June 18, 2011 § 1 Comment

The cemetery shivers beneath
the gravestone, erected
and growing no less tall.

she holds herself
at the base of her shadow,
the deepest part of the eye
walking over her name,
trying not to fall into
the deepest part of
her name engraved.

her blood vessels
explode from her hands
like the Nile delta.
i rub my fingers over
them and they soften
and give way,
with the erasability
of scoring on warm
clay.

she says nothing as
we whisper in prayer. we all rub
our palms together and close
our eyes to the dead.
she keeps hers open,
lifts the foot of her
cane from the dirt
and holds herself at
the base of her shadow.

she waits to be
taken home. her smile
weeps out and i
deliver her cries half way
into my body. i’m cradling
her head between my shoulder
and ear and she never resists.
she delivers long, trembling
sounds from her throat
and then her eyes.
it is ok,
i say. i am telling her
it is not the last time.

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