there’s a broken sword and a half sung song next to my grandmothers bed

beneath the sheer white curtains that slow dance hypnotical, shadows live family photos and unfinished books

a sun that sways into the soft orange then swoops to the deep blues and vanishes behind the white walls and glass I’m staring at

while curled in a u holding a white ball of blanketed warmth that snores and radiates history, trauma, love, and strength

the ancestors breathe their fingers in a tired ocean caress down our faces

the radio news is on telling stories of victories and poverty

nana is in my arms fragile

the woman who carried six kids through the dust and desert of broken through the open battlefields to some higher plain of survival

I see her hand, beautiful in its melancholy, perfect white sand dunes of skin, the days laughter still hugging to it

Today she has realized she is powerless over time and her body
So are we all, so are we all.

12/16/10
1115am