Tiny Grandmothers
Dante ascended to his Beatrice.
I prefer my version of heaven.
We all do, I suppose.
I can’t have too many tiny grandmothers
in mine. A sweet multitude
of heavy coats and velvet hats.
Always waving from Fort Tryon’s
shadows, they’re weighed down
by loaves of dark bread and butter.
Their pocketbooks filled with silver-
wrapped Hershey’s kisses, rolls of cherry
red Lifesavers, they never forget.
I take their wrinkled kitchen hands.
We form a perfect circle. We wheel around
again and again and again.
We say the names of every murdered sister.
Those names, they move the sun.
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