Final Poem for Grandma Elizabeth’s Cancer

FINAL POEM FOR GRANDMA ELIZABETH’S CANCER

Can I have this dance, White Light, you old worn

and loose-lip gossip? You say it’s time.

No. My grandson has to rub my feet first.

Can’t break tradition for a little Death

eager to get on with his business. Give

respect to the ones you take. Be patient

’cause I ain’t rushing. I’ve been a patient

and bed-rested to tears. Hiding these worms

nobody call hair no more. Can you give

Constance, my daughter, a dream? Warn her time’s

eating itself to the bone to stall death.

Rest awhile with me, Old Light. I’ll go first

call of the sparrow tomorrow morn. First

answer me this. Am I cute? Greg was patient

netting this wig on his mama’s bald death.

Can’t look all that bad. Spent hours warring

eagerly with what’s left of my hair. Time

rocked in that corner, quiet. What you give?

Could you rub my cold, stiff feet for me? Give

a final shock to my toes. Veins left first,

nook-and-crannied into varicose. Thyme,

chamomile, and spearmint oil patiently

eased on each heel. Rub it in, now. Yes. Worm

right in that spot with your bony thumb. Death,

can I marry you where I’m going? Death-

afraid, my last man had nothing to give.

Not like you, swooping up in here a worn

cyclone all flame-eyed and torn tendon. First

evening a godly man visit, patient.

Rummage in my closet for a shawl. Time

come that I get ready for our date, timed

almost perfectly. I’ve been so lonely, Death;

nurturing shadows with my breasts. Patience

can wear thin and I hear frail wings giving

early morning their hollow-boned song. First

razor of sun come cutting up my worn,

bloated legs. Patience: I’ve had it to give.

Yes, now it’s time to shed this skin’s long death:

empty bedpans, first light breeze. Child, this warmth.

Final Poem of Persona

FINAL POEM OF PERSONA

Who summoned me? Who thinks my gaze

is a wheel of thread to sew wings onto backs

that never had wings? Who traced the maze

sunset makes on the water to lead me back?

The air is caustic here and rotten milk

spills from the flowerbeds. The earth is iron-

stenched. There is blood like unwound silk

ribboning from a body. Whose child has learned

their history? Who’s found the door but can’t get out?

Whose words do I perform from my sealed mouth?

Mastery