Flap, flap went the mind of the bird <br />Who flew out of my grandmother's attic <br />Like heat in the creases <br />Where air used to be.One week <br />Of summer was all that house <br />Could take of my brother and me. <br /> <br /> Years later, <br />After she died, someone, my aunt I <br />Think, arranged for her to be driven <br />Back to Kingfisher, Oklahoma for the <br />Funeral.It was raining, the mortician <br />Hadn't arrived yet, so the driver <br />Left her there -- <br /> <br />My grandmother, unembalmed, in darkness, <br /> <br />In the month of the Green Corn Ceremony. <br />But she wasn't Cherokee, she hated Indians. <br />Her story was only deep, irregular <br />Wing-beats of the heart. <br /> <br />Down dropped a huge bright-colored <br />Night-bird with large crested head, <br />Which, when raised, gave <br />The appearance of being startled. <br /> <br />It skimmed a few puddles gorging <br />On insects and a lizard or two. <br />Then banked south for my <br />Grandmother's house, bright star.<br /><br />Ralph Burns<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stella-2/
