Grandma Wants Me to Write Her a Poem
When I was younger, I wrote some poems
and gave them to my grandma.
I didn't write her a poem, specifically.
I wrote the sound of a screen door
slamming in the breeze. I wrote
a hundred octopus arms hugging
the world to sleep when it feels alone.
I imagine her now remembering
my teenage poems and thinking
that's not the image she has of me,
her granddaughter, but of a darkly
warm stranger, somewhat troubled.
All the poems I write now
seem like letters she wouldn't enjoy
reading, miserable stanzas about my nightmares,
my sore throat filled with phlegm,
the roof caving in, a stranger
tapping on the window,
how I don't dare open the curtain.
Maybe she wants to read about flowers,
maybe I only wrongly think so.
If I were a grandma, what would I want to read?
Probably about nightmares come to life,
but maybe that's just me.
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