To Remind Me When I Forget
your grandmother used to pick coffeeyour other grandmother made stews from scratchyour grandfathers tried to feed your parents and their siblingsbut the work sometimes didn't want to give,was too stubborn and too unpredictable and the men who worked it were too frustrated came home drunk,sunburnt,
dehydrated and unfulfilled hitting their women scratched an itchtoo hard to describe with wordsthreats as jagged as the handslanding, breaking skin in more waysthan physicallysigh my grandmother died seven years agoshe left me with questions so many questionsmemories of her picking mushroomsin the woods behind her brick housestretching out a gardenia for me to smell for the first timei ask my other grandmother to tell mehow she grew upwhat did she dowhat she was likeand she starts cryingshattered stars in her eyestells me to please not ask her