Poem: Grandmother on Steps

Grandmother on Steps

Red sky in morning.

Weep and smoke behind a rhododendron,

drive to Twin Lakes to mend it all—

brick chipped like dentures and

spread skull caviar—

help mail up off floor,

sculpt deformed pillows—

varicose veins probably dragged like a cigarette and

empty telephone socket ached its miscarriage—

blood on that too, and on coffee cup,

in white hair, white bone—

white carpet recoiled like a virgin;

Ain’t no virgin. Blood spills always,

stupid shaky hands. Blood spills always;

out of Africa, tusk blood spills. Always

clean it from pearl fingernails—blood spills all ways.

By Ella

I am an undergraduate junior studying creative writing. I am interested in short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction and professional writing.

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