My Grandmother is still not dead

In my dream,

We’re still in the hospital.

There are more people coming,

To pay their respects to the last

Of my grandmother’s shallow breaths

They have enough of their own

To waste in platitudes

They insist that saying goodbye

Is the only proper thing to do,

(for closure)

I tremble as I touch a hand

That raised me to know sunlight

A touch I can remember now

When I hold snow for too long

In my dream,

She’s always alive as my hand meets

Her oxygen mask

And because I know how it has to end

I do it.

In my dream,

She dies.

Is it because I killed her?

 

It’s been seven years since she last breathed

And my grandmother is still not dead.

In memoriam, childhood

It is not right to make a mockery
of childhood memories.
To take kaleidoscopic dreams
and sort them by size
and discard those that do not fit
their idea of blue.
Blue is not an idea; it is a memory,
My memory.
Of the old lunch box I ate from
all alone, and
that slide in the park I never climbed.
Blue just is,
like I just am, still waiting
for them to see,
That happiness doesn’t come in only
checks or stripes
that one size doesn’t fit us all,
And that’s alright.