the long two weeks

i remember

my father's mother, Nellie,

sitting

at the kitchen

table

doing her nails, smoking a

cigarette

and drinking a cup

of coffee.

a plate of cinnamon

toast in front of her.

a pile of thin blonde

hair, like meringue,

sat upon her head.

she had thick glasses

with

pearls stuck along

the frame.

they reminded me of seashells,

and her

some sort of shellfish

washed up

from the sea.

she smelled like the sea.

she hated the kennedys,

rich bastards,

she'd say, teaching us

a new word

as we sat with her, 

painting by numbers geese

and sunsets.

things she bought to keep

us busy while

my mother was in the hospital

recovering from child 7.

she'd make

us kneel in front of the tv

when billy graham

came on, and offer ourselves

up to jesus.

touch the screen, touch the screen

she'd yell,

you never know when lightning

is going to strike,

she said and snatch

your little life right out from

under you.

it was a long two weeks.