Rose in My Room

Staring, softly, at the perfume
bottles arranged on her mirrored
tray—Paris, 1934, columns and Lalique
flasks, amber and buckwheat honey—my
Grandmother rises, a wave of heat rolling
and curling and distorting the
shapes of the June flowers behind
her. She is thick with the wilds
of beyond, refined by the pieces of
her still living a rhythm of days
and nights spinning around some sun.
She sews, as she always had, patterns,
and fine lines. She spins yards
of silk and sets them up like
flames. I watch her, she dances
for me. We are quiet, and,
mostly, I don’t cry.