Grandmother was born on the threshold of a new age.
Assuming the role of a Father’s neglect
and a savior of a generation left with no shrine
So I build this altar of memory.

I remember her smell
Of prime rib and perfume-
Chasing me around with sinister dentures
And telling Skookum stories-
Scaring me from flesh
And finding my heart.

She dreamt and had visions
But kept them to herself-
Yet I could see them
In her eyes.

Her wrinkles ran like Gorges-
Where the tears would
Often flow.

She struggled-
And the struggle
Was her life
That she would
Roam.

Rites of passage transformed
In cigarettes and Patsy Cline
And looking for love
In all the wrong places.

We are all children
Of a
Reconciled apocalypse.

I lay a feather on this altar
And hear the wind sing-
“Fall to pieces.”