Mother’s Mother

mom tells me I smell like

her Mom—

something flowery and 

the blackened endings

of a joint.

I feared her blotchy wrath

that sometimes showed itself

and others 

slept like something

without a hippocampus.

This time she possesses no rage.

Only hurt about the lie.

She’d say of me, 

if asked:

I hold my things tight 

to my chest

till it’s only half possible to breathe.

My skin is impenetrable,

rubbery.

I lie to her more than she knows.

One thing I am honest about

are the dreams.

I’m in Grandma’s house,

knowing that she is dead. Knowing 

her body is somewhere in there.

I’m careful not to look for it.

I use her bathroom 

where me and my cousin 

used to bathe—

I fiddle keys on the piano 

in her sunroom,

let her rocking chair screech 

beneath me.

If she were alive, I would’ve 

done my things with her.

Shared stories of my mom,

her fluctuating daughter,

talked about why we love her 

and why we hate 

having her around.

In her place

I try to fit mom.

Convince her that she is okay

after she’s taken too much.

Hold her hand when she says she feels like

she’s dissolving.

I assure her that she will not die

but am not sure.

I don’t know death