201 Readings | 1 Rating


My grandmother drinks sake

through her coffin on a cake

of Kansas dirt. In my dreams

she runs a barbershop,

cuts Black hair with giant

scissors, she’s mad

I am a pussy in this life.

I remember the hens and chicks

raising themselves between stones.

We never had a drink together,

but it would have been rum.

Instead, Nirvana clashed

with the weights we carried,

Mine 10, hers 2, the cycle

sitting still with one wheel.

Why she loved me was regret,

but I didn’t care, only

that our thin arms matched

and when she lifted her arm

to say goodbye, it was

me who remembered to wave.

Posted 01/03/17
For E.B.Y.
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