Grandma

From the doorway of her room
in the local nursing home,
I glance back and see her
already turned away from these faces
she did not recognize, slumped
in an easy chair before a row
of potted geraniums on the windowsill
in the afternoon sun, absorbed again
in a large-print book, her ivory hair
in a tight bun, her skull fragile
as an eggshell, breasts a dimple
in the biscuit-colored sweater
she knit herself.

At 80, two world wars and a dozen children are sepia tints lost in a cupboard among yellowed certificates and the shoe polish turned to stone.
And yet, just last year at my wedding,
she danced with me, and told my bride,
“Boyfriends? I had one on every finger!”

We, too, now turn away, our heels
clacking on linoleum, to the world
of children and telephones
until our own appointment
with this quiet room.
                                          This narrow bed.