Resident Artist No. 8: Swimming - At Twelve

Swimming —— At Twelve

Ribbons of leaves provide shade

out back where my grandmother

likes to rest on a chaise lounge.

I comb her whisper white hair

without hairspray anymore, without

the curls on her forehead that made

two extra eyes. Her eyes have sunk

into the hollows, lids closed. I can see

though tissue-thin skin to skeleton.

I know what girls are not told

and I don’t even have the words for –

how her 38 inch bust flops down

over time, turns into flattened tires,

how moss grows into an old mind.

I know the embarrassment of “accidents”

drowned by nervous giggles. I told Mom

if Bin would come to live with us,

I’d help care for her. I’d no idea.

I’ve cut her food into little pieces

she can chew. I’ve snapped when

she won’t come to bed. She wants

to climb stairs that aren’t there,

to visit her mother. I’ve lifted her

from the ground, and turned from

twelve to seventy. Bin’s hair falls

from the comb. Yet as she lies asleep,

the sun’s orange rays penetrate

through the trees into her cells.

She is like a world peace. Dying

might be as beautiful as pink blossoms

that drop onto the peach patio.

For the first time, I understand

what love feels like. It is

this moment I will store.