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My Grandmother

Trees aflame with dying leaves
cut the blue skies
with red and yellow
My grandmother moves softly
as a whisper among the papery leaves
their edges lightly scratching her soul

She’s left her wrinkles behind
Pirouetting past unbelieving eyes
and singing so loudly
no one can hear

Down the sidewalk
of sun-baked stones
warm to the touch, cold at heart
the dry discarded newspaper
lifts as she passes
as if breathing
stretching its nightmare headline
for all to see

My grandmother circles back
in her wake the paper flips over
burying this headline
My grandmother believes in peace

Granny goes anywhere
unhindered by the aches of her old age
or the firm flesh of her youth
unhindered by fear or law
She is free

On a whim she pops in on the Pope
No one ever shuts the door on my Gramma
If the Pope is stuck for a word
she whispers it in his ear
If the Pope is stuck for a thought
she whispers it in his heart
She won’t spend all her time with him
What with so many others to inspire him
And so many others to inspire

My grandmother helps little old men
cross the street
She thinks they’re cute
Can’t wait til they get to the other side

As her granddaughter walks
fragile bulky bones and blood
and struggles
My grandmother stops traffic
changes the weather
makes the telephone ring
Like an answered prayer

 

-- Olga Sanchez

 

 

 

 

Originally published by L D Books, used with permission.

 

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