since this poem is blue the next will be yellow

The Hours of Myself and Your Memory

For my grandmother

With him gone all day at work,

and your things everywhere,

in the new apartment I am more

alone than I have been in years.

Your quilt over the back of your couch,

your embroidered cloths in the kitchen,

your linens, your jewelry, your broom.

Your dustpan even.

I hung one of grandpa’s photos

of you in the entryway. There you are!

Trim, in black, a fish in one hand,

your face straight, unreadable, queer.

In another room, you are a just a girl

with braids on her head, nursing

a badger with a bowl of milk,

the chickens scattered around.

Outside there is music and traffic.

On hot days we went to the ferry docks.

You talked of everyone but yourself

and when I grew up, you seemed old.

We always think we will have time,

of course I didn’t get enough. I got your things.

Alone in the apartment, I sweep

the floors, prepare salad dressings,

wait for the new loneliness to break in,

to fit me like your well worn boots.