Grandmother

Preparing for the Death of My Grandmother (Never Enough)


Blackbelly moan of the night
train lurching into town
stirs me out of sleep; some mile-off
coal-burning beast infecting my dreams.

I sit up and look out my open window;
the steam rolls off the asphalt,
the night air pours in,
smell of rain and fresh lightning.

I don't want to think of her gone,
what her brittle body will look like in satin,
the stench of formaldehyde replacing
the stench of death; I don't want to think of it, but I do.

I walk to the kitchen.
Flipping the switch, the florescence shudders
to life she is waiting for morning dialysis; losing
teeth, glasses, losing her mind, all in the ruffles
of her bedding and hospital gown.

I pull from a jug of a water until my stomach swells and twinges.
What is one night becomes several.
What is one death becomes many imagined.
Months shuffle past like the turning of cards

until that fresh Sunday morning in March,
when the sun breaks through my sleep
and the telephone rings.