IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE
Sitting,
in my grandmother’s house,
awaiting
the sound of old lady sleeping.
I rock in her chair by trying,
my grandmother does it by magic,
or practice.
Fire low,
but remembered size
maintains an illusion of warmth.
The light is out,
to help old lady sleep,
and two voices
soften in the darkness.
She speaks
to hear the reply,
telling her I am there,
with her yet,
and have not departed
like rude guests
once the meal is finished.
As her breathing
regulates,
conversation becomes murmur
and fades
to memory.
There is a creaking
from the rocking chair
attempting harmony
with that of my shoes.
Old lady sleeping now,
leaves me,
with only my images
to stay by me.