For my Grandmother
My eyes are strange to the print tonight;
Nero, Caligula, their crimes disappear.
Instead, a pair of button-shoes you wore,
False teeth, a veil, a monogrammed bracelet,
Blot the Roman sun with their antiquity;
And risen in its place, you dust or cook,
Read the latest in child psychology,
Your gloved voice threatening, “Wouldn’t you like. …”.
Yes, it is miraculous to think of you
At all, what with history droning names
Pricked by the triumvirate, Oblivion,
Epitaph, Farewell. Even to see you
Surface above your facts, the dates marked for birth,
Marriage, death, asks that I float you on my breadth.
The Very End
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