Writing

my grandmother isn’t alive on Halloween either

Poem • August 15, 2004


once comfortable, she spoke again

she told me of night and tonight
and midnight

just as she mentioned her,
midnight crept in and curled around
her feet – the kids have long since emptied from
the streets

she told me of the cat at her slippers
and of her house – and of her
and of her life – and of her heartache
and of her midnight
(that damn cat)

“tonight,” she said, “goodnight.”


Notes

Previously unpublished.


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