i.
Grandma once gave me plaits. Untied
ribbons once made me fly
in her yard brimmed with birds
of paradise on the island. I was five, maybe six,
when she rubbed my clothes clean, pinned
my shirt, shorts, panty to the line.
Spoke a prayer: To be love and loved.
Let wind carry each cloth off.
ii
Hair undid.
Here undone.
Stared mirrors bring no refuge, just me
in another box.
Generations apart is now our closest distance.
I am 36 and feel her flesh
on these hips, persuaded breasts, lips, tongue—
a chastising shovel. This body a burial.
Grandma bequeathed to me a beauty
we both betray, a begging
to someday understand: love’s
in the boil and simmer.
iii.
Saw grandma on her porch the other day in a photograph.
Front yard still flocked with flowers ready to free.
Fingerprinted her cheekbones, jaw, and now creased skin.
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