My Grandmother owned two bells
and she used them to be heard,
to amplify her aging voice.
The first was black iron
on a post out back.
She pulled on its rope from the porch
and it rang a hard thunder
that shook the land.
It rang to bring him home,
to feed him
leftover pot roast and potatoes from the garden
The second felt fragile
porcelain in the palm of the hand.
A sweet child cling
to ring
when she’s sick in bed.
He would come running with a tray
to feed her,
navy blue socks with holes
walking quickly on a linoleum floor.