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
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.