The Moon (I)
My grandma’s red nose,
a fresh perm and dye,
shoulders that lift
when she stands her ground.
“Jes callin’ to tell ya
ta go look at the moon.”
It’s been fifteen years since
she introduced me to madness.
Grandma sang Elvis when she drank,
and then she cried beer tears
on Alabama piano keys.
“Okay grandma, let me put my shoes on.
Leaving the apartment. Gotta go to the west wall.”
Beer tears are hot, you see.
They burn as they fall, like rain in the 7th circle of Hell.
I saw them burning in her when
she grabbed my mamma’s throat,
skin bulging between piano fingers.
“See how beautiful it is?
So full and bright up there
Mamma’s face blue as her eyes,
body lifted above her wheelchair,
hands clawing at hands.
I held my holey Grandma Bear on the couch,
watching the face of madness burn
as my mamma hung in her mamma’s hands,
and I was too scared to pray.
“This always makes me feel
closer to you. Hugs and kisses.”
“Hugs and kisses. Love you grandma.”
I’m the only one who
looks at the moon with her now.
♦ ♦ ♦