To my mother

Before My Grandfather Died

A little girl walking up the stony
Street, her hair tied in two cream ribbons
Her shoulders exposed to the early, blue
evening. The street lights begin to glow,
but she doesn’t need to be home.

When the blares of an ambulance drills
Through her ears, my mother collects a handful of pebbles
Storing them where no one sees.

I wish that I could take your little
Hand. Lead you far away from 3778 Forest Street
And the black telephone ringing on the wall. Stones
spilling between her fingers.

You wouldn’t have to see the stretcher
Pulling white sheets—like your cotton dress—
Over a man you only had for ten years.
I could lay my sweater over your bony arms
And stroke your dark brown hair.
Tell you that I would be home after school
And you wouldn’t need your own set of keys.
Your mother could work, and we would build feasts
In the avocado kitchen: things that you taught me to make.

You might still smell his fumy cigarettes
On the brocade couches and see the ash trays
Free of smoke stains.
Photos of him placing you on his knee as he promised
You the world.

I will tell you that you are pretty,
And comb the tangles from your doll’s hair.
I will walk you to the bus on the foggy mornings
And stitch up all your busted pocket seams.