“...But didn't your mother die too?
Back before we came?”
Some thoughts, Dad?
That day for you?
How was it?

Tell me how you woke in gray –  
dressed so uniformly in it
Tell me how you turned away
from all those helpless flowers on the ground
Came back empty to her kitchen
Still filled with the smells of her

Let me see her!  Hear her!
Once!
With any words –

besides the ones about the meat juice on her dress
The roast flung back
to splatter rage
upon the gentle curse
I see reflect
in my own image
across the table from him...

I want to know about the picture on your bureau
Do silent eyes still tuck you in?
She has a kind face that seems unending
I understand why things have gone unsaid

Do you know?
I have been wondering
Sneaking in your room
to pull her down from heaven?
To melt the years
of frosted glass between us?
to touch her face?
To look into her grayish eyes
pretending for a moment – she can really see me
To lay my head against her calico embrace?

Celina Arnell Rodier, 1872 – 1941  (Dad's Mom)