—for grandmom

Sometimes, I feel her. She
gave me death as a gift. Most
would scream

that death ain’t a gift!
—I disagree: memories wrapped
in her warmth,

soft flower grip folding blankets
over sleep. Her tongue brandishing
love—

embraces felt like summer,
humid on the touch. When I see
a child walking

safely in the street, hand inside hand
of their grandmother,
that is me. I don’t

pretend not to cry. I miss her. Not
gone eight months,
& the feeling

of when mom told me “son your
grandmom died” still
dum-solos my

eardrum. I dropped to kitchen floor hands,
praying for comfort
that she was

mistaken. She wasn’t. I heard a bellow
shake pain inside my head. The distress
is still what keeps me up at night.