nellie

I can hear the crackle

of my grandmother's
voice as if she
were still in the other room,
eating toast
and drinking tea, cursing the entire
state of politics,
especially
those damn kennedys.

her swollen feet in a tub

of epsom salts.

she'd be watching us

while my mother was

in the hospital

having her seventh child.

I can smell her cigarettes,
see her polishing
her nails,
putting on matching lipstick,
flamingo pink.
she liked to paint by numbers.
geese over a pond.
a moon rising in the purple
layers of oil paint. 

tall blades of grass.
her watching  tv,
telling us
to kneel and touch the screen
when billy graham came
on and asked for sinners

to come forward.

we're all sinners, she'd

preach,  wagging her finger

at everyone in the room,

and then remarkably say,

even me.