When I was twelve
Liz McClure
"Kiss your Gram goodbye." My twelve-year-old
Fingers burn as they brush the slime of satin
Lining the box. She is frigid, powdered marble,
Lavished with cosmetics, a withered manikin
Holding court in a posh department store.
As I study her,
("It's really a blessing — she'd been so sick, you know.")
I realize she looks better than at my last
Reluctant visit to the Home. As I near her
I hear echoing from behind me Auntie's cries;
Her grieving I don't understand, and it
Frightens me. As I touch the chalky cheek with my lips,
A shudder whines in the pit of my stomach, rising
To my chest, where it rattles on my ribs
Like the haunting echo of a breath over the lips
Of an abandoned conch shell, playing a song of
Loneliness and quest.
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