* * *
Bluebird___After The Memorial
Granny was busy—sweeping and folding
we’d not visited at all since she lost
the daughter I’d lost my mother.___Granny,
please sit. She perched on a petite porch chair —
rescued from the farm—once we owned land cows
a future. Now? Not. Just bluebird___and me.
Her diamond heavy fingers and dear hands
so scrumbled by time they trembled___but lips
were firm—not mean just sensible. Always.
Her stout frame was feathers___most avian—
unfettered as Tulip trees born to twist
in times like these__waxy-greens to ivory
then plink plunks rains as rocks then water-walls
that wept our worlds away then steams arose
sweet releases—ozones and creosotes
heavenly scents. Then to her heirs she spoke—
“I don’t know why I am still here.”___For me.
I thought. For we, I never said though this
be the last of my Granny__my bluebird—
instead I held her hands and warmed our skins
as heat-lightning stitched our worlds___to Heaven’s.
* * *
Vicki Whicker is a member of the Los Angeles Poets and Writers Collective and Bright Hill Press Poets. Published by Mo+th, 12 Los Angeles Poets, Big City Mantra, Literary Mama, Nonconformist and others. Her poetry and art are featured in the anthology Seeing Things (Woodland Arts Editions, 2020). A chapbook of her poetry, Caught Before Flight, was published by Woodland Arts Editions in 2020.
featured photo by Vicki Whicker