My family eats dinner every night
around a green island—

Mom hasn’t talked for weeks,
she likes to stare at the window
and let her cigarette cool.

I stare at the plate,
spaghetti sprinkled with sand.

Mom says grandma used to dance
naked as a child on the beach—

she’d stuff shells up her nose
and blow air till they’d hit her brother.

Mom can’t taste the grit anymore,
she soaks them in her coffee—

showers them on the counters and sofas
shakes them on all our beds.

We all wonder if the next speck of dust,
drifting out toward the quiet waves

will be grandma’s rasping laugh
whenever Mom tried to clean.