Today Grandma sinks in the seat, and smiles

at the fake trees, while the black
and brown crosses that hang over
her  shoulders as cancer calls her name underneath.

Holding the heartbeat monitor with her eyes,
the priest says "she's been cleansed, she's been cleansed,
it'll be alright, it'll be alright,

She's God's favorite."

Today in the mirror,
her
reflection removed from
her
beauty she once written with
her
lipstick, yes,

beside her
coffin, I mean bed.

the doctors notes declare
her
hope as thin as a paper cut,
the smell of fake smiles and dreamy prayers
stain the white walls, but with the families
tears run like razor-blades against the
skin, this may get better,

She still sits serenaded by silence,
baptized into a cloud of gloom.

Today it feels like a black Christmas, but with
a green moon, and red stars, and weak blue angels,

Gee, thanks, oh young Mary, for all of today.