You rocked on your porch...Negroes nodded. <br />You inclined your head...to position hair combs. <br />Then fumbled over blesed beads <br />Whose creeds you crankily mumbled. <br /> <br />Antiquity separated you from the Priest <br />Whose absolutions were absurd. <br />You were 'too ancient for iniquities.' <br />Old Crone...he never heard your sins. <br /> <br />Withered relic of sassafras tea, of needle lace, <br />And a hoary, orange tree, <br />Whose fruit disappeared <br />And you slandered me. <br /> <br />Gnarled cedars were your green, gaunt, gossips, <br />Rasping screens with brassy yarns. <br />And you, attending, lending shrewd, pierced ears, <br />Agreeing that Heaven was lewd, dirt taunts. <br /> <br />Senile witch of chicken soup rites, <br />Watching dark clouds with dimming eyes... <br />You muttered. I listened, away out of sight, <br />To wisdom and banes and weather-shroud rain. <br /> <br />You slipped on a step one November day <br />And took elegant time in fading away. <br />Heavenly joy when those angels flew. <br />(I think demons collected you) <br /> <br />Now I gently brush and comb my hair, <br />And dare priests to absolve. <br />I sit in your rocker, blush, and sip tea <br />And damn you to Heaven for the way you taught me.<br /><br />elysabeth faslund<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/grandma-14/
