my grandmother too, is love.
in the weeks before she died
she writhed.
in pain and suddenly,
her attention shifting inexplicably
though no less pain it was in inner diastrophisms of the falseness carved in masks she shuddered forward all herself
at 97 and in shining reservoirs of urgency
she went through bouts of chanting:
'i love you' moans and 'so much, so much'
and 'thank you, thank you, i love you' for whatever hours
there were visitors
to hear.

her cat still slept on her head.
she with all her flaws expressed it to the point of drymouth,
perfecting mantras never known so well
her brink of death an apex in our hearts




















.

we grew up poor together
and didn't really like each other,
but when you have nothing, it's nice
to have company,

so we did what poor kids do; we stuck together,

taking breaks from being poor in the afternoon woods,
where nobody was dressed nicer than us
and the creek didn't care
that our shoes didn't fit.

Anna, I love you because
nobody knew how sad we were.

a liar in love
a crow in the cold
beginnings ascend
from the carcass of folly
what remains is the will
what survives is what
was there all along
courage is knowing