Nonna
After The Edge of Night,
but before Mike Douglas –
the black and white snowy antenna leans sideways
out the sunlit kitchen window,
trailing dust motes above the sink –
the lunch dishes are almost dried.
Your grainy skin, with its lost turgor,
its ropy, blue-green veins –
our family tree traced lovingly
on the backs of your hands –
and a soft, mothball-scented housedress
stippled with fading yellow sunflowers
fill half-opened eyes, sniffling nostrils.
I rest my head in your lap
and you sing to me,
raisin bread crumbs and drops
of milky Postum inches from my mouth.
The gravy is just now bubbling on the stove –
a tisket, a tasket
I lost my yellow basket –
and this little piggy cries
all the way home.
A Girl by the Bridge 
This is so brilliant . I hope your bridge is not ‘wood’. Great work
What is wood?
‘wood bridge’
Haha…no. Read it too quickly.
K. Carry ON. Good Work here .
Thank you!
I love the image of a family tree traced on the back of hands.
http://www.awordofsubstance.wordpress.com
Thank you!
Amazing