Beatrice Shira Erlichman My grandmother is in a red dress & clapping. My grandmother, who never wears red, is clapping in my kitchen. I am pouring milk into a bowl of Raisin Bran. It is a Sunday morning. Her grey hair is in a tight bun ribonned through with daffodils. My grandmother is buried in Jerusalem under pink earth. You did it, she says, while I spoon cereal into my mouth. The linoleum is cold under my bare feet. I twist the see-through orange bottle open, lay the dose on the counter. It is the day of rest. Bt she has traveled all these miles to watch me swallow, to pull a flower from her skull & weave it into mine. -- p2: defenestrate --

※ 发信站: 批踢踢实业坊(ptt.cc), 来自: 118.166.241.165 (台湾) ※ 文章网址: https://webptt.com/cn.aspx?n=bbs/poetry/M.1584812156.A.6EE.html