because she’s still wearing her diamond earrings
and they still bloom
reflections in flour-coated sunsets
in pre-dawned hospital windows at dusk and beyond
they don’t come off
obtrusive and quiet and every spark
bright where her eyes haven’t been
lately she’s not all there so i should be
holding on tightly
because her hands are battlefields
her eyes are blizzards
and she ate half a scoop of strawberry ice cream
just last week it was just the other day
she said my name
because i can see every jolt
her heart now beats
tsunamis that slam her ribcage and there’s no higher ground
because she still sits up in bed head in palms
and asks what day it is like the churches aren’t shut
like her hallways aren’t gathering dust
because when she sleeps she dreams of a lovely ghost
with a shovel and pre-technicolor dirt on his cheeks
and he wants to be with her again
because when she wakes
she wonders before
she remembers
she forgot
because we remember we sit in the living room
we flood our eyes with laughter
and dead lambs and fish and loaves of bread and wooden spoons
and chicken cordon bleu
and i want her to hear and taste and see and smile
again against homemade wine the singing in summer the accordions i never got to hear
because she still asks me what i ate for dinner(though it’s only lunchtime)
and until she can no longer speak--
Sep 22, 2024
Sep 22, 2024 at 11:05 AM UTC
because she’s still wearing her diamond earrings
and they still bloom
reflections in flour-coated sunsets
in pre-dawned hospital windows at dusk and beyond
they don’t come off
obtrusive and quiet and every spark
bright where her eyes haven’t been
lately she’s not all there so i should be
holding on tightly
because her hands are battlefields
her eyes are blizzards
and she ate half a scoop of strawberry ice cream
just last week it was just the other day
she said my name
because i can see every jolt
her heart now beats
tsunamis that slam her ribcage and there’s no higher ground
because she still sits up in bed head in palms
and asks what day it is like the churches aren’t shut
like her hallways aren’t gathering dust
because when she sleeps she dreams of a lovely ghost
with a shovel and pre-technicolor dirt on his cheeks
and he wants to be with her again
because when she wakes
she wonders before
she remembers
she forgot
because we remember we sit in the living room
we flood our eyes with laughter
and dead lambs and fish and loaves of bread and wooden spoons
and chicken cordon bleu
and i want her to hear and taste and see and smile
again against homemade wine the singing in summer the accordions i never got to hear
because she still asks me what i ate for dinner(though it’s only lunchtime)
and until she can no longer speak--
--written 3/30/20--
because my grandmother is the sternest eagle-eyed
badass stubborn old lady i ever knew and will ever know
and she hates not being able to move her legs and walk or move her mouth and talk
and yell at me and i know
her voice is in there somewhere below the staggering
breaths and mumbles but i can hear her
as faintly as she can hear me
