ARE YOU THERE ELVIS? IT’S ME, MICHELLE
by Michelle Awad


My grandmother only
cries
in the face of death,
and even then,
it is shrouded in
laughter,
like her body is 
rejecting
the notion.



I have come to 
understand

that this

is hereditary.

Now.

An appointment card 
arrives

in the mail for you,

she breaks down; 
“Blue Christmas” plays

through the car stereo,

she breaks down; 
she doesn’t sleep, she thinks

she can hear you

moaning and coughing

in the next room. Yesterday,

my aunt asked her 
a question,
and she told her

she didn’t know,
to go ask 
you.


I remember your hands, 

as dandelion wishes, and

the smell of 
lawn clippings,
and
a stack of 
word search puzzle booklets

on your side table, but 

I never catch myself

talking about you

in the present tense.

It's something
I deeply wish
was hereditary.