Grandmother

My grandmother dried her fish on flakes in rain,
held tightly to a master’s house
I didn’t know her and couldn’t find her in
my university books,

as the ground beneath me unearthed new understandings
of nothingness, seeing without motion through
crowds of people in stillness,

the narrows of home guiding ships to safe passage
left me looking around the room for music

in dry rain falling over the
Atlantic Ocean, but on slippery roads

the fiddles fell down rotting
with salt, black and grey on beige staining nothing
but past echoes of fish laden women cleaning on
sighted light through open doorways where she stood.

 

Photo Credit

Photo By Melinda Cochrane – All Rights Reserved

 

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