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my grandmother stands
inside an aqua-marine
plastic cell
overlooking our
brick fireplace
she has become
dust ridden
hazy from the remnants
of dead skin
her skin
butter pecan ice cream
her lips
roads on a map
her eyes
saturated sponges
soaked with the depression
world war
holocaust
divorce
two children
five grandchildren
my grandmother stands
in her cell
which her skin predates
on our brick fireplace
which has seen
fewer winters than her
in our house
whose wood
she etched into
while camping
when she was in
her twenties
my brother and sister
pass by her
as they do the
ivory carved knick knack
from the serengeti
they haven’t yet realized
that she is
our mother’s mother
she is what my wife
will be to our kids
what my sister will be to hers
they don’t swear around her
don’t talk about sex
lust
love
deceit
death
all of which she has known
all of which pumps
through her veins
through her thoughts
her heart
her regrets
her narrowing view
of her future
my grandmother stands
in her cell
and i can’t help
but to slowly
wipe away
the cloud
that weathers
my view
of the woman
who carried me home
in a Christmas stocking
over twenty-four years ago
kissed the hand
that writes this poem
gave goo goo noises
in hopes for a smile
and smiled back
at the eyes she
unconditionally lent
(previously published in the Chiron Review)
copyright 2009
Kevin Patrick
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