ISSUE: Fall 2011
my little grandmother
knows no pain
she believes that
hunger—is food
nakedness—is a wealth
thirst—is water
her body like a vine wraps itself around her walking stick
her hair is bee’s wings
she swallows the sun-speckles of pills
she calls Internet the telephone to America
her heart has has turned into a a rose—all you can do
is smell it
pressing yourself into her breasts
otherwise it’s no good
it’s a rose
her arms like stork’s legs
red sticks
and I’m on my knees
and I howl as a wolf
at the white full moon of your skull
grandmother
I am saying: this is not pain
just the embrace of a very strong god
one with an unshaven cheek that scratches when he kisses you
