My grandmother
is in a red dress &
clapping. My
grandmother,
who never wears
red, is clapping in
my kitchen.
I am pouring
milk into a bowl
of Raisin Bran.
It is a Sunday
morning. Her
grey hair is
in a tight bun
ribboned through
with daffodils.
My grandmother
is buried
in Jerusalem under
pink earth.
You did it, she says,
while I spoon cereal
into my mouth.
The linoleum is cold
under my bare feet.
I twist the see-through
orange bottle open, lay
the dose on the counter.
It is the day of rest.
But she has traveled
all these miles
to watch me swallow,
to pull a flower
from her skull &
weave it into mine.