Old Lady
If only she had spiked some sharp edges,
or starred in a town scandal
if she’d harbored an ounce of meanness
my grandmother would be poem fodder.
But she was plump and warm like the feathers
and flannel she tucked us into at bedtime.
Late at night one or the other of my uncles
crashed our peace, stinking of drink and manure
not bothering to remove their heavy boots
strewing straw and pig shit
over the polished floor, violating her horsehair
couch with their grime-stiff overalls.
The Old Lady, they called her, never mother. No
terms of endearment. As sons, they’d each received
a farm, fertile, golden. But like little boys weaned
from the breast they pestered for some elusive
appeasement, leaving only when her tears shamed
them. By morning she was sunny, stirring us awake
with the smell of toast, stewing blueberries,
and her untroubled voice, singing a German lullaby:
“So Viel Stern’ Am Himmel Stehen
An dem blauen Himmelszelt”
Wished Away
I wish for the days I wished
my teen granddaughters wouldn’t sprawl
across my silken bed in street clothes
their pollen infested ripped shorts
and indoor/outdoor socks
defiling my anti-allergy refuge
reveling in their secrets and embarrassments
trying their bravado on each other
like leather bustiers. Where was the sage
warning me to be careful
what I wished for, those long afternoons
all breathable air saturated with happy
chittering and chortling. They’re gone.
My satin comforter smooth, fresh
as the first chill of September.
Today I’ll gather apples as the air
becomes crisp, something to put up for winter.
Think how the jewels will glisten under glass.
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