remember to flower the
earth with your song, my
nana said as she was framing
her dying light in a 1950s
pair of yellowed spectacles on a
bed of barn wood and
cigarette ash.

gram, i said, coughing, i think you've
mixed your metaphors. you mean—

—dear, she hacked, i haven't
the time to fuss with it. you
figure it out.

Now—

she tapped another Camel light
on the splintered bed frame, flicking
the ash into her hand-stitched slippers.

—can you get me a beer?

it was the last cigarette-and-brew
we spent together.