Somehow their old lady heads

got turned ’round to watch me.

Somehow the oyster glazed eyes turned
right ’round like a
child-proof cap.

I am obscene with height and power,
with facile fingers
and splendid spine.
Sixty eyes in laborious gaze
wrenched from the wheelchair’s tedium
pick me out like the first ripe berry.

My grandmother sits.
This alone is disturbing:
that she should sit the day long
in fireproof pajamas.

Even her god will find her in slippers,
a Bingo chip in one blue hand.

She waits.
Eager for me to speak those words so full
of the world outside.

© 1993 Catherine Weaver All rights reserved