Strange to think that grandmother of dignity and sharp humor
                    should become this grandmother, delicate as a tear.

                    Strange to think these bones, covered with crushed rosepetal skin,
                    supported the other, more fleshed under fresh rosepetal skin
                    body that jauntily on Thursday afternoons came down
                    from the bus stop

                    How does it feel to know it will be soon, only to wonder
                    and how?

                    How you must hate Death, who leaves you waiting.

                    How, delicate little teardrop lady of brokenhearted proportions
                    and the echo of a once keen laugh, you must hate Death,

                    who took only your sons, and leaves you waiting.

Grandmother/1 appeared in Poetry Mensa, London: Pond Press, 1966.

Copyright © 1999 Miryam Ehrlich Williamson. All rights reserved.

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