She stares through her history, grounded.

Ninety-seven pounds of mafia – groomed

manners, hard consonants too precise

 

to be polite.  She sips thick tomato,

pureed and salted, to keep her strength,

counts pills with flattened fingertips.

 

Powdery, the little white ones, halved,

are reminiscent of her jaw line, once strict,

now solemn.  Her cloud is stale dachshund

 

and sedate terrier.  Stiff hair like Picasso

pokes at heavy gold earrings,

laced with symphony of wheeze-

 

cough- oxygen- inhale.  The plastic tubing

slithers dangerously underfoot,

winds its way up and around

 

her, into her pink and white nostrils.

She pats my hand, taps me with sharp nails

outlined with yesterday’s spinach dip,

 

lichen on the dry wood of a willow.

Her chair squeaks an old lady’s sigh for her.

The evening news

 

tells her bedtime stories.

Obligingly, her great-

granddaughter stands guard

 

over technological tales

and anti-terrorism in contrast

to Grandma’s

 

dusty black and white background

of Southern Baptist hymns,

air raid drills, and ice boxes.