from my grandmother's turquoise combs.
The cat weaves around my feet. Rain
pings on the furnace pipe, thuds
on the shingled roof. I hear it rush
through the gutter sluice. It sounds
so free, so much itself.
These combs were made in Mexico.
I can't remember if my grandmother
ever wore them. Still, they were hers.
I see her bent over the planting beds,
pulling weeds, casting seeds, culling
sprouts where there are too many.
The neighbor's cat weaves
around her feet. Corn, carrots, peas,
and beans from this garden will help
me grow. We hide a seedpod from
the Japanese Lantern in the rubber
guard at the foot of the clothesline;
it's still there, strongly orange, months
later. All the rain and snow
of the intervening seasons do not scar it.
My hands, holding these combs, begin
to look like hers. My face, in this mirror,
catches only a slight memory of hers,
and that, not the most beautiful. She
was beautiful. The cat urges me to bed.
Rain keeps falling, washing, all night.
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