This is a poem to my grandmother
Who I named Goose
Whose tongue-biting smile
Lit her grey eyes with ease
And creased her cheeks,
Olive, a little sunken, but tinted
Blushing gold, painted by
A quickness to delight.
I have dotted your smile
And your clothes with countless floured fingerprints—
Hands making biscuits—
Because when I needed to laugh—
Oil spilled—
You dotted mine first, and because
I now know you knew
Laughter,
Playful and wild,
Habituated a moveable home that
Lacked a door but unlatched souls.
I miss you, but still, your tongue-biting smile
Lights my blue eyes with ease
And creases my cheeks,
Pale and full, tinted by our shared delights.
So I write this for you, for memory, for
A glimpse into the virtue that served
Your biscuits and marked your laughter,
For your hospitality.
