When my grandmother says “goodbye, my love,”
one hand flying up to cover her mouth,
oh let the sun stand still; just for a breath
let the earth forget her dance, and pause
to honour the grief of old women left
to go on and go on and go on.
Her hand is nothing but blue vein and bone.
Her heart is a holy sepulchre.
This breast is an anchor-point,
last tether to the world where life
ran through a curling ribbon of vessels,
mediated by a pound of flesh.
And life still migrates through my blood,
transformed here where our bodies meet,
your milky breath a testament
to the miracle of your subsistence.
GREYHOUND STATION, 1 A.M.
The security guard makes his inspection for
unattended baggage, suspicious characters,
contraband or weapons sneaked onto the bus.
The young man holds his few things, distressed.
Red t-shirt, track-marks up his arms, a sparrow
in a duct-taped, homemade cage.
“My baby,” he croons, “Don't take my baby.”
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Christine Pennylegion
would be pleased to hear them