A wild, brute soul,
clothed in rose-colored grit.
My lola, smoking
on the porch like a queen
of ashes and side-eyes,
laughing at thunder.
Her voice,
blazing like old radio static,
sharp as ***** before noon,
and soft as the hum
of lullabies forgotten.
She danced through gossip
like a match to dry grass.
She cussed in three languages,
prayed in whispers
no one was meant to hear.
She loved with fists,
held grudges like sacred songs,
wore her past
like war paint.
So now, I spark flames
like smuggled cigarettes,
pretending
the smoke is still hers