My grandmother likes salami, God, and bougainvilleas
I like to think she likes tenuous pink things-
but then there’s the salami.

One day she taught her daughters to string neck-
laces from bougainvillea petals
like-ponies-in-a-junkyard

I think I chewed too much bubblegum in mass
because I picture God pink
an ethereal globe of a poppable pale pink.
And for some reason, I like to think Brother
Charles saw that too

I bet my lungs are somewhat pink:
more pink than my berry red blood
but less pink, sweet and/or hairy
than a cotton candy poodle.
I forget if they were strawberries or rasp-
berries too

There are things that are pink
but then there are things that are pink
and shadowless.
Like subterranean lungs,
God, the future, and
the smell of flamingos in the dark

The future is still pink and
somewhat fruity
like a lukewarm strawberry milkshake blushing,

or was it maybe just the taste
of my pepto-bismol stained lips.

One of those ponies was my mom

My Nana’s last year
Floating high in the sky,
You look unstoppable.
You could make a young girl cry,
If you were poppable.

A bright red balloon,
You’re not predictable or certain
Yet you’re always quite immune,
To the things beyond the curtain.

I love it when you fly,
But fear the destined crash.
I hate to say goodbye,
To the times you had a blast.

When the time comes and you pop
With pieces strewn about
I’ll remember how you never stopped
Loving us, no doubt