Mémé, l’amore à distance

“Petit canard”, her cashew-colored skin winding in eccentric circles

Imprinted with more nighttime tales than the rings of trees

Marveling at the pliancy of skin around her knuckles

Thin as paper and smelling of Newports

“Arrête ça” slung sound with fetch that shook mountains

Stretched down plucking foxtails before toon time

She pulled back the blanket, making room for me to live as she did

Laughing at the stiffness of the couch

“J’un comprends pas”, she was Cassady’s railroad

Amazed by things that tarnish

Faded splendor knocking on along a road fraught with life

In this place she is a martyr, a spectral occurrence

“Appeler un chat un chat”, swaddled in drape and seeking cuff

Words once sharp as blades now as cold and bygone as afternoon coffee

She made the sign of a cross on her chest

Watching the fan push air into a corner burdened with house dust

“Putain!”, she had dreams of a world I couldn’t see

Strapped to her shoulders like my arms did when she fell, they are lost behind her eyes

Old oak stood proud, now whole branches fall, reveal forgotten prayers

Her words leave the Father, in one and out the other

Hands to the ceiling, she spoke only once

“Nous sommes d’un sang”

We are of one blood

Are those words a promise, or just a whispered goodbye