2009 18 March
It rains at bedtime. I release my hair
from my grandmother's turquoise combs.
The cat weaves around my feet. Rain
pings on the furnace pipe, thuds
on the shingled roof. I hear it rush
through the gutter drainpipe. It sounds
so free, so much itself. These combs
were made in Mexico. I can't remember
if my grandmother ever wore them.
Still, they were hers. I see her bent
over the planting beds, pulling weeds,
casting seeds, culling sprouts where
there are too many. The neighbor's cat
weaves around her feet. Corn, carrots,
peas, and beans from this garden
will help me grow. We hide a seedpod
from the Japanese Lantern in the rubber
guard at the foot of the clothesline;
it's still there, strongly orange, months
later. All the rain and snow of the
intervening seasons do not scar it.
My hands, holding these combs, begin
to look like hers. My face, in this mirror,
catches only a slight memory of hers,
and that, not the most beautiful. She
was beautiful. The cat urges me to bed.
Rain keeps falling, washing, all night.
--
sharon brogan
http://www.sbpoet.com
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