She wore a weak leg,
two hands of grievance
That would often beg
Baptists bowl creedence

Slept with the sons,
whispered to the daughters
Voices like kitchen crumbs
Mumbles I never bothered

Her voice carried
In a clammy palm
That at once buried
An ancestor embalmed

Many spectators to this
This great deterioration
Out of her mouth a hiss
I hold none, no adoration

To her I owe
Many things unsaid
We live in a shivered home
In hallways she treads

But none the less
She is my lady
My skull hers to caress
My only, lovely baby