Deeply
Clods of tractor mud scatter along the
route to Grandpa’s
Through artichoke fields. Breathing:
No one has a word for today.
Up ahead, the hedge groves, an ivied
entrance gate, and the mountain,
Roaring up beyond Camarillo Springs. This is where he will remain
Grandma inches with us, a bowed widow,
her walker navigating
Across unevenness, an unyielding tree
birth, to the foot of the plot.
Our hearts are upturned, low to the dug
ground. His bare grave,
Under awning of branches. Needles everywhere. Earthen clumps still
Moist from yesterday mix with lengths of
digger-chewed root.
Grandma insisted on the “cheapest pine
box” when the undertaker knocked.
It was pine we used to build those
shelves that day, sawing,
Staying out of his gruff way, sanding
together in the fragrance of boards.
His violin was of a different wood—a
rare wood—I want to believe.
Its elegant curves, thin, sanguine walls
resonated Chopin, Mendelssohn,
Bach, making him seem thicker, painfully
large.
And
now, you make the earth swell, Grandpa.
I fold a blanket for Grandma’s
shoulders. It weighs down on her. The time has come.
You will join him this very winter, in
the morning, on the day before Christmas.
Your daughters will surround you, giving
you drink from a sponge.
Your tumor will overtake you, Grandma,
but friends will sit beside you, laughing,
In your white room, where your breathing
will grow slight, and moisture will appear
On your cold lip. And as your daughter ducks into her tears, I
will carry you away
In
a sheet.
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