Rasunah Marsden

this is what an old man who spent seventy-five blustery northern
canadian winters looks like, grandma,

walking the ties, checking the brakes, with breath like dragon-smoke
frozen over an icy sea of crystals,

face and hands of tanned red leather, unlike the hands of your own
saintly father and mother

arching gracefully round your thin shoulders, holy born

holy born woman I have lived so long your bones have turned to
dust, grandma,

in my dreams I seek the final resting place no one dared to touch, I
watched them run away,

your only one, curious ears straining

heard your body rustle in its shroud one last time beside the pew,
even the chubby priest could not linger so long in your radiance,
the embalmer’s eyes, still watering like your lost one’s eyes,
lingering with grief over your unimpeachable grace, drowned in
ceremony, aghast

and wandering like a ghost amongst strangers,

your son-in-law’s silence a river of testimony

to every steaming glass of tea you ever made,

his shadow today, a testimony to the indelible fabric you were woven
of, grandma

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