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Elizabeth Dec 2015
I found my mother outside in our shed
holding her trowel in May.
We walked to the farmers market
and she told me where vegetables come from.
The morning was spent planting seeds and bulbs
close to her heart, my future siblings.

Mother taught me the painstaking birth
of cabbage and watermelon.
We were impatient in the kitchen
while we stirred soup and noodles,
peaking out the kitchen window.

I started planting trees for distraction.
Mom told me
I would hammock under them in time,  
shade my forehead in leafy kisses,
turn my novel pages with soft breeze.

Father watered the tomatoes to relieve
mother from the neck-breaking June sunlight.
She watched through the doorway.
Each night, with baby monitors wired through
cracked windows, Mom waited to pick
her devotions from stem until they were ready.

In August I saw my grandma smile
in crow’s feet happiness
at life that she held in cupped palms,
covered in placenta dirt.
Published in the Spring edition of the Temenos literary journal, 2016.
K Dec 2015
Nanny,
Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I have ever done.
As I tread along the barren corridor that night,
I passed the poorest of souls.
Those whose frenzied hands moved without purpose,
Muttering incomprehensible sounds from their shrunken lips,
As they stared absently at the walls, never truly seeing.
With a clenched jaw, I had to divert my gaze,
Wondering who these people were
Before their lives were stolen by Time,
The unquenchable monster slowly sipping at their youth.
A loving mother, brother, daughter, husband, sister?
Their stories I will never know.
I wondered if you would remember yours…
365
The sign on the door read Christina Cook,
Written hastily on the old whiteboard,
Stained black with the names of those who resided here before.
I will never forget the unbearable sorrow I felt as I entered your room.
Nanny, you used to tell me aging was a natural process,
Like the changing autumn leaves.
But you forgot to tell me that after that beautiful,
Final blaze of glory,
They fall.
Littering the ground in their fading shades of brown,
Disintegrating into powder.
Spread by the wind as ashes.
I held your hand, and felt the leathery skin
That bound your delicate bones.
But, it wasn’t you. Gone was the strong woman,
Mother of 8, grandmother of 19
In your small frame, I found a child.
So proud to flaunt your red-painted nails,
It was always your favourite colour.
You drew the bed sheets down
To expose your barren legs and oversized diaper,
So proud to show me “how skinny” you were getting.
I wept inside for your degenerating body.
On the outside, I smiled and said "you are beautiful".
I swallowed heavily as I kissed your cheek and said goodbye.
Took what might be my final glance
At your weathered face that was once so full with joy.
I love you.
I hated myself for leaving you all alone in that desolate room.  
I wished my presence could provide you with comfort,
But I knew I couldn’t.
Fall was fleeting,
Snowflakes were falling,
And you didn’t know me anyways.
Bridget Allyson Nov 2015
Your hands have never been so frail.
Your eyelids had never been so weak.
Your bed had been replaced.
Your head, surrounded by pillows.
Your lips were never so white.
Your hair was never so little.

Your voice had never become so small.
Your skin have never been so thin.
Eat more, you need it.
Sleep, don’t strain.
I hope your day tomorrow will be better.
I hope your muscles tomorrow are stronger.

And when I said goodnight
On your 83rd birthday
I held your hand
You kissed my head
How long until I see you again?
Or will I ever?
Annabel Swift Oct 2015
You disappear,
one day at a time,
like the fainting trail
of a shooting star,
and you look at me,
like the cold sky after
a firework show.

My dear,
why do you float away
like a drifting balloon
to a faraway land,
so deep,

and glaze at me
with blank eyes
like the empty television screen;

becoming just another soul,
I cannot meet?

Your lips move,
like the fluttering wing
of a butterfly,
but they part to
babble new syllables,
only you understand,

and we teach you
the colours of a rainbow,
the names of fruits,
or fishes,
knowing they don't matter,
for our voices are
simply words,
spoken underwater,
and our faces become
the edges of a cloud,
or the faded ink
of an old newspaper.

You live in a fishbowl,
where you bob along,
like a sail in a
quiet river,
and once in a while,
you wonder how the windows
shut themselves,
or why the kettle whistled
when nothing was boiling in it.
You told me then,
it's strange,
how funny this world is.

I remember,
my mother kissing
your forehead,
your skin like wax,
as white as bone;
and you ask
in a voice
like the shuffle of a blanket,
if grandpa
will be coming home,
for dinner,
tonight.
The border to me
XUAN CARLOS ESPINOZA-CUELLAR·WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2015
  
The border to me is a constant anguish,
A big pause button,
Often in dreams I dream of Mexico as my lover
And he waits for me,
And waits.
The border to me is my grandma’s rosary,
She said she’d hold on until I could go back,
Until she couldn’t.
I recently found out that for years she’d scold my cousins for using my table games “he’s coming back, and he’ll ask for them…”
And she’d save t hem in her old, rusty closet.
The border to me is a big pause button,
I often dream of going back,
Who will I be then, when I hit play?
Who will I speak with to recover my grandmother’s prayers,
To collect 12 years of unclaimed hugs,
All the wrinkles and gray hairs I missed on her hair,
And every step I couldn’t walk by her.
But one day I will cross back,
In the middle of songs and candles I will conjure her spirit,
And I will look in the back of that old closet
Where she saved my table games
And there I will find her love
And her songs, her advice, her songs,
And the little pieces she left for me, hidden for me,
When she envisioned the day
That this pause would be over.
I was buried in this dirt,
Leaving you behind.
Sad, torn, and begging
For me to come back
Into your arms.
I see you visiting my grave,
Your sisters too.
Everything is hitting you
Like a ******* hurricane.
My son, I have lived my life, and
I'm speaking to you beyond
The grave.
You will see my old face again
When you pass through this
Black hole that is nothing.
But my love, I'm
Not hurting anymore. There's so
Much I want you to see before you
Come watch next to me.
Watch everyone you love,
And that have loved you.
Watch your grandbabies and
Great grandbabies grow
As I am now.
I love you my sweet son,
My strong, strong son.
I'm sorry I let you down but
I hurt for much too long.
There's a place for you next
To me that will always be open.
Come sit and watch, then,
Only then, will you see.
Michael Kreitman Oct 2015
I remember my grandmother crying at her sons funeral.
When my father choose his way out.
I got one birthday check $100.
Mother was blamed for his death by his family.
Sister disappeared from my life soon after that.
No one born too far from Niedersachsen, said Oma,
ever quite captures their sing-song intonation.
Characterized by subtleties, like an umlauted vowel,
all non-native imitations sound inevitably as ******
as would a cry of “ello, guv’nah!” in a London coffee shop.

Her Plattdeutsch instincts neutered
by decades abroad, married to a son of Milwaukee,
her permanent, dormant longing for Salzgitter awakes only
to trigger hunger pangs of irreconcilable nostalgia
at the passing whiff of a Germantown bakery.

She taught me the word “sehnsucht” over lukewarm coffee
and a pause in our conversation: a compound word
that no well-intentioned English translation
could render faithfully.
It isn’t the same as just longing, she sighed— longing is curable.
Sehnsucht holds the fragments
of an imperfect world and laments
that they are patternless. How the soul
yearns vaguely for a home
remembered only in the residual ache
of incomplete childhood fancies;
futile as the ruins
of an ancient, annihilated people.
How life’s staccato joys soothe
a heart sore from the world,
yet the existential hunger, gnawing
from the malnourished stomach
of the bruised human psyche, remains—
insatiable, eternal.

Long enough ago, a reasonably-priced bus ride away
from the red-roofed apartment in which she babbled her first words,
a kindly old man in a pharmacy asked her
about her peculiar, exotic accent. Once inevitably prompted
with the question of where she was from, she responded only
that she was a tourist off the beaten track.

And when I pointed out, to my immediate regret,
that she gets the same question back here in Ohio,
I realized then that, not once, has she ever referred to the way
the people of her pined-for hometown spoke
as though she had ever belonged to it.
Michael Kreitman Sep 2015
One of the hottest tattoos I have ever seen on a women is her grandmothers numbers.
Church Rowe Sep 2015
Awoke this morning to build an effigy.
A 9 am text turned it toward a eulogy.

I left exposed
my heart of gold
to another gone soul.

Hospital rooms,
beeps and boops,
my grandmother’s last soliloquy.

Her last trip through memory lane;
I listen intent, every word
branding onto my brain.

I beg just a little longer be
the bearer of the key
to this exclusive library, her history.

But, alas the doorway is flooding.
God has shut the ark door.
No salvation is coming.

Pulmonen et vita submersi,
analogon Atlantis

(Lung and life drowned, analog of Atlantis)




Goodbye ‘Maw-Maw’ Nell Broussard
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