ISSUE THREE: "Distilled Black Grandmother Tears" by James B. Golden
Distilled Black Grandmother Tears
Two weeks into Winter Break
the exact week my licorice-tinted grandmother
sauntered through her bedroom door
open to her grandson in patent-leather pumps
perfectly church red because
the Women’s Choir wore statements on
the mighty blood of Jesus and winced
somewhere between entertainment and terror
dressed her polyester skin and he knew
even grandmothers startled and he knew
his father would pace holes above and he knew
nothing would be simple again.
The same chill advisory that turned him loose in
December would confine his tomorrows endlessly
and he knew his grandmother
weeping while disinfecting the toilet
cleaned earlier that morning
had nothing to do with the hospital bleach
and her distilled tears rested silently in his attic
watering the snapdragons that marked
the memory
beneath.
Photo Credit: Staff