Robert Couse-Baker CC
Her room is a jar of molasses,
piled calendars mark
the gone years.
My grandmother sits up in her bed
covered by afghans
soured by coffee stains
and she never opens her window
anymore, its surface too opaque
to reflect the sugar in sunshine.
My grandmother lives in the blue
of the television, her last loves
its many Mexican soap operas.
I do not understand
and I do understand.
Her husband left her
and she lost her pink house.
She waits for Don Juans
who are not coming,
and painting her nails
If only I knew what sad means.
Instead, I live inside melancholy,
a sticky cactus, with velcro fingers
inside a blue desert rejecting water.
I light my photographs on fire
to burn the black memories
but the mirror’s glare always
gives me a headache.
I stitch a blanket silencing song,
and wait for bright balloons.
I wait to exhale, and then inhale
the jasmine hope of morning dew.
Natalie Marino is a writer, mother, and physician. She has work in Barren Magazine, Feedlit Mag, Idle Ink, and Indolent Books. She lives with her husband and two daughters in Thousand Oaks, California.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.