april post-a-poem {5}

the water in the sink gets cold.

i was doing the dishes
but came to look for pictures
of you
instead...
and found none.

i know i have them,
i have them in my head,
your black hair, your granny glasses,
bright eyes
and sun-behind-the-cloud smile...
the way your english is always tinged
with french,
syllables accenting in opposite places....

the purple shirt
silky smooth with tiny flowers,
knitting needles clacking in your hands...

and the water in the sink gets cold.

april post-a-poem {4}


i'm writing a poem she said
you can't read it she said
it's only for me she said
the words are all mine she said
you wouldn't like it she said
you wouldn't get it she said
i am different than you she said
not better than you she said
but different than you she said
i won't let you read it she said
not even if you ask nicely she said
and then she left it out on the table
open for all to see (except me)
and walked out of the door
and that's all she said.

april post-a-poem {3}


a day behind already...
easter morning come and gone...
candy on the couches
gummi bear murder scenes set up and
photographed
a nap
woken by a phone call
that my grandmother is in the hospital,
come quick.

a sunny drive that caught me crying
remembering how she pronounced
diane as dzee-ann...
meatpies and french fries,
archie comics and coloring books
carol burnett on the tv
while she counted stitches and watched the babies...

antiseptic halls and labored breathing
tubes pumping oxygen
moments of comprehension
that we grasp onto like gold...
and we pass them along to each other to hold
"she said she loves to eat..." we say
"that no one can take that away from her"
and we all smile knowingly,
recognizing shreds of granny
within ...

watching my father by her bedside,
she is frail now and can't see...
grasping for the bedrail,
she finds my father's hand
and holds it.

driving home in the dark...
peanut butter sandwiches,
mindnumbing tv
as i wonder what are the things
my kids will remember
about me.

april post-a-poem {1}


his name was gunther
and his hair was stone cold white
he told me he could speak german
if i liked...
that his hands were as soft as butterflies
and that his wife
once told him
that when she died
{when death finally said yes}
that's what she would be...
a butterfly.

that she would come back to him
and he would know it was her
because she would land on his fingertips
and no one would be able
to tell
where he stopped
and
she
began.