You rocked on your porch...Negroes nodded.
You inclined your head...to position hair combs.
Then fumbled over blesed beads
Whose creeds you crankily mumbled.
Antiquity separated you from the Priest
Whose absolutions were absurd.
You were 'too ancient for iniquities.'
Old Crone...he never heard your sins.
Withered relic of sassafras tea, of needle lace,
And a hoary, orange tree,
Whose fruit disappeared
And you slandered me.
Gnarled cedars were your green, gaunt, gossips,
Rasping screens with brassy yarns.
And you, attending, lending shrewd, pierced ears,
Agreeing that Heaven was lewd, dirt taunts.
Senile witch of chicken soup rites,
Watching dark clouds with dimming eyes...
You muttered. I listened, away out of sight,
To wisdom and banes and weather-shroud rain.
You slipped on a step one November day
And took elegant time in fading away.
Heavenly joy when those angels flew.
(I think demons collected you)
Now I gently brush and comb my hair,
And dare priests to absolve.
I sit in your rocker, blush, and sip tea
And damn you to Heaven for the way you taught me.
elysabeth faslund
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/grandma-14/
