ARE YOU THERE ELVIS? IT’S ME, MICHELLE
by Michelle Awad
My grandmother only
cries
in the face of death,
and even then,
it is shrouded in
laughter,
like her body is
rejecting
the notion.
I have come to
understand
that this
is hereditary.
Now.
An appointment card
arrives
in the mail for you,
she breaks down;
“Blue Christmas” plays
through the car stereo,
she breaks down;
she doesn’t sleep, she thinks
she can hear you
moaning and coughing
in the next room. Yesterday,
my aunt asked her
a question,
and she told her
she didn’t know,
to go ask
you.
I remember your hands,
as dandelion wishes, and
the smell of
lawn clippings,
and
a stack of
word search puzzle booklets
on your side table, but
I never catch myself
talking about you
in the present tense.
It's something
I deeply wish
was hereditary.
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 3:16 PM UTC
ARE YOU THERE ELVIS? IT’S ME, MICHELLE
by Michelle Awad
My grandmother only
cries
in the face of death,
and even then,
it is shrouded in
laughter,
like her body is
rejecting
the notion.
I have come to
understand
that this
is hereditary.
Now.
An appointment card
arrives
in the mail for you,
she breaks down;
“Blue Christmas” plays
through the car stereo,
she breaks down;
she doesn’t sleep, she thinks
she can hear you
moaning and coughing
in the next room. Yesterday,
my aunt asked her
a question,
and she told her
she didn’t know,
to go ask
you.
I remember your hands,
as dandelion wishes, and
the smell of
lawn clippings,
and
a stack of
word search puzzle booklets
on your side table, but
I never catch myself
talking about you
in the present tense.
It's something
I deeply wish
was hereditary.