Two months and another. My grandmother.
Chose my name over a bowl of Quaker Oats at five in the morning.
Paid for with reparations from the United States government.
At twenty-two. I still smell the stench of her garage.
Oregon mildew and mold. She penned the New York Times
crossword with her right hand. The flowers on her floral-print tablecloth.
Everything magnified by her reading glasses. 32 DOWN: “another name for
the Manhattan Project.” 8 ACROSS: “the Lakota word for woman.”
She tended to her lilacs and lilies the way she tended to herself.
The trees, too, need to take their vitamins with a glass of water.
Doctor’s Orders.
Do not be scared of snakes and spiders.
Be scared of the wall outlet and the car door.
These things are. These things are unkind to our soul.