by | Apr 1, 2014 | Poetry

We ate at the Royal Palace




cream potato soup

and seasoned chicken.


I chose

the rye roll

from the bread basket.


I was young

& convinced dark

breads were chocolate.


My grandmother would lift

the glass and let me sip

pink champagne.


But it was May,

and I longed to let night

under my dress,


to toss pennies

at the moon,

to bet them all

it was full.


I didn’t notice her eyes


into the waves


of her face,

and only later

in photographs



her slant

against the chair,

hand clamped

too tight around my waist–

barely steadied

and the eyes,


aiming away,

I would call the look sad

but it was wiser


as if she knew

the date of her death,

staved it off


& welcomed it,

the way she had opened

the screen door


so many nights

and said

lay him

    on the couch

with the plastic,


neither resigned to taking him

nor resolved to leaving him.





Photo By: Robert Schöller

About The Author

Amy Graziano

Amy Graziano is a graduate of the SIUC MFA Creative Writing program in Poetry. Her work has appeared in Blue Earth Review, Naugatuck River Review, DIAGRAM, The National Poetry Review, Quick Fiction, and Verse Daily, among others. She is currently an English Instructor at Lake Land College in Mattoon, Illinois.