the grandfather clock

there used to be a grandfather
clock
in my great grandmother's house
in philly.

it never moved, never chimed,
but she had a stick
to make the door open
make the bird come out and sing.

I remember her brown crepe skin,
her olive
eyes, and silver hair. she was
no bigger than a bird herself.

an exile from somewhere
in north Italy,
coming through the harbor
into ellis island.

she had chickens in her dirt yard
and scrubbed the stone porch
with a brush
each morning. all cliché, but true.

the place had a smell all its own.
musty, like old scrolls,
ancient linens, and books
that were no longer opened.

it was
always warm, there was
always something on the stove.

she lived until 102.
I can still see her, her hands,
her shoes,
her long black dresses.
I can hear her voice.

never in English, just Italian
from start to finish.