I know who my mother’s mother is.
How can one be grand? Avant-garde? A grand mother in 1972? A grandmother in 2002?
I know I teethed when my eyes were pure; blue.
What must chew through gums with stained eyes? Air releases through a mouth that hadn’t lived. My lungs swell with words pulsating to cure.
I know my cheeks carry the same oil to heal.
What did those brown sugar puffs blush about? Whose heart did they bite? The smooth hills between her eyes and mouth have rolled to me\Where I peer from the pile of possibility.
I know we danced through freeing glass.
Why do my feet prance in pasts? Her prison holds a memory never imagined. If I could coo to a fragmented fantasy, I’d declare her voice burgundy. Ignited and thick. Humming from a rusted orange pit that never burned. To match the tattered outfit.
I know darkness kissed the inside of her elbow.
What needle can make one hollow enough to harden? To be the puppet and puppeteer, milked of tears? Where strings pump buds into mud by a vibrant grave. Commemorating a forlorn fuchsia life. Never a wife and like the pillow she is evergreen. Climbing through sticks into the seams of what could be through me.
I’ll keep digging to find her seed.