Ah, they are better than mamas!
They have more patience than death.
They believe we are their children.
One teaches you to read,
mine insists that I listen
(she can’t write, she can barely read).
They know more if unwidowed.
They know less when a child’s inside.
They know, they knew, they have
known more, so much they need
a grandchild for a touchstone,
maybe to love, maybe to love.
We’ve each loved only one.
Yours said, Read to me. And mine
rocked, chewed, spit, even told stories.
Ah, there is no other grandmother!
Her doppelganger casts no shadow.
It is the dreamscape she articulates.
And yours? how could I know her?
I would have to find her in you . . .
your eyes, fingers, or secret places.
(18 October 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander