Nana

I still follow old ladies
who remind me of you- 
a cheekbone raised high, 
warm hazel eyes
the chance
to glimpse at what you
might have looked like.
Seeing them
I remember a time
of red-raw innocence
when all you said or did
became a hope, or wish- 
a colorful dream.
Aromas of almonds, rosewater
the richness of Ponds cream
drifts then settles,
covering me like a
summer quilt
while I try, still try
to recreate the days
so long ago
when you came to visit
and slept beside me.
You sang Yiddish melodies
that always made you cry
though, I never knew why.
Mornings I watched
you dress
in a long-boned corset
so detailed and well-made.
You struggled and I giggled,
jumping around you, tugging
and you let me, always let me
fill with your loving
while we played
our game.

Tracks

I grew up in a town with fast cars and slow girls.
Boredom made the guys deal their cards straight, 
and the track was excitement
as sisters giggled in the backseat unaware
while young lives inhaled a poison
and needle tracks found the way
into the boredom.
Parents continued to buy
precious nothings
to prevent talk
to prevent noticing
that slow girls learned to run
while fast cars crashed
one by one
into a wall
of incoherence.

Projects

Remnants of sweaters
sit sleeveless in musty bags,
half painted dressers and desks,
canvasses with a first coat of my idea,
Picture albums barren on the shelf. 
Plants that need new pots,
walls that need new coats
and racks of clothes I wore
when I had that happy time.
I am caught in the middle
of what was and what will come
and projects, 
like me, are numb.

Traces