On the Death of My Grandmother

Sometimes
Somebody dies. Where they go
I do not know that I care: for a moment, they
Were,
Grain of sand in outstretched,
Open hand.

Screen door slamming; skillet
Sizzling on the range. False teeth in
Small glass; thoughtful critic, new-mown
Grass. Leaf chopping, weekly shopping. Trips
To the bank. Often a crank but always
Loving. Pushing, pulling, even
Shoving; molding, scolding, gazing firm
At something I could not see, something
She knew
I could be.

A better place?

I see her face
Not in the sky but in
Myself:
I keep no ashes on my shelf.

Sometimes
Some body dies; but
People
Live.

-Dedicated to Fern Durst, 1917-2010

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