JOAN BARANOW

​SAINT JULIAN PRESS POET

 

GRANDMA

 

 

She dreams of wolves, their dense aromatic fur,

the red rash of their mouths. Daylong,

she lies there, the woven covers drawn tight

to her chin, watching nothing but light

crawl along the walls.

Once, she had carried an axe.

Once, she had flayed the little doves

so plentiful here, the specks of their eyes

bright onyx gems. She’d chewed their tough

sinews, boiled their bones.

She washed, put up peppers, swept

the oiled boards, kept all her needles

in a cushioned box. Now

she lies still with sickness,

the stink of her sweat like a dump.

And that weakling of a girl – miniature

of her mother – creeping in,

her cloak puddled on the floor,

jabbing a spoon of tepid tea to her lips.

Ghastly. But she’s the ghost now, isn’t she,

blasted, blown, her legs like twisted rags,

her stomach a pale pit. Get up!

her dream voice shouts. In dreams

she crowbars the bloated door and goes

past the cracked lintel, her whole heft erect,

no one’s lullaby. Out there

is where she finds them

encircling the house, her own

rough pack sniffing the land,

ears turned to the woman who’s had enough –

frail, naked, old.

She takes a step, holds out her hand.

 

 

PRESS RELEASE
POET'S PAGE

POEMS

• NEW MOTHER AGAIN
• SPRING BIRTHS
• THINGS HE SAID​​
• GRANDMA​

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