By Lin Lifshin
flat blue hills
yellow light.
November in the
old house. The
walls pull from
the floor, she
barely knows me
or my voice. Stained
Chinese carpet.
My grandmother
wrapped in blue sheets
on the chair where
her old man sat
and stopped her
from singing 60
years, now under
the blanket in
her own dark
singing you are
my the midnight
leaves, her arms
growing smaller
sunshine my only
