With her daughter
Tucked into the folds of her skin
Creating pouches of fat by her middle.
Head, propped up by a pillow,
Her jaws relaxed and slacked down.
I imagine her dark brown eyes,
Searching my mother’s face
In a sea of stories
Still hanging in the air.
Laid, a blanket hugging her frame,
She was the size of thumbelina.
Two thin braided plaits,
Laced with silver tinsel- gleaning.
I imagine her soul,
Roaming the forest of Mississippi,
Visiting the trees
Outside the plantation.
She’ll trace her hands on
The old mobile home of my mother’s house.
Windows with splintered paint,
My grandmother crawls in their sealant.
And came into my mother’s home
Still illuminating in her
Like the safety light on top of the stove.
And came in between my mother’s teeth
When the years had worn her season to season.