|Apr/May 2020 Poetry|
Multimedia painting by Janet Bothne
In the back of my grandmother's antique store
I overhear my grandfather chanting:
"I don't want to die. I'm afraid to die,"
and my grandmother soothes him, "I know, I know."
And she opens, opens doors, drapes, blinds and windows,
old glass lights in carillon colors,
and still he cries his fear of dying.
But I am five and the watches are asleep.
Clocks line the walls, each hushed at a separate hour.
This store is a theater of light,
crystal air, tobacco scents, and hard-bound
books clasping secret knowledge.
And now her hands guide me to the garden,
and I am all lit crystal and sun,
as the world rehearses another day.
The light stings like shattered glass,
and broken strings are blowing in the trees.