Elaine
for my grandmother

It’s six months after
you accepted the anticipated silence.
Wettest February on record,
and something in the meanders
of my evening bus ride recalls
those exhausted journeys home.
Suddenly, physically, I miss you.

I fire up my phone. Time to listen
for counsel from ghosts, my hospice recordings.
It takes just a bleating alarm
to seize me. I’m sucked back
to all those hours at your bedside,
picking at berries, swapping kisses.
I long for that singular purpose,
shepherding those pressured cells
to connect with easy warmth
...