My gran would always tell us, Flor and me,
owlish, unbelieving postwar pair,
“Read your Bible every day. Behave:
God has His eye on you.” She gave
every worried cent to priests for prayers.
Nodes of sanctity deformed her knees.
A steely prophet stirred our morning oats;
longing for the grave, for heaven, awe
inspired her to overcook our groats,
serve a side of Revelations raw,
as if she couldn’t bring herself to say
how people live a tick, and pass away.
Endless bliss, then, was Florrie’s answer
as the pale filaments of cancer
raveled through her mind. As she died.
Now they’re baking biscuits. Here. Inside.
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