i have 3 grandmothers

carved themselves gold

knives blooming into rosewater,

always

a swelling ore

i do not know the taste of the air there

or

how grape leaves grow

& curl

there

but the trunks in

my grandmothers

my grand, mothers

backbone

sturdy

have built a remembering, themselves

into my sweeping outer eye

into a mirror frame

and in melting gold

made sure it’d hang on my wall

always

& stay just a whisper enough

to be heard in my voice

fuming & hearable

or

sturdy & fragile & with all tenderness

 

gold by Victoria C. Prescott