We ate at the Royal Palace
restaurant
afterwards,
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
sinking
into the waves
of her face,
and only later
in photographs
noticed
her slant
against the chair,
hand clamped
too tight around my waist–
barely steadied
and the eyes,
off,
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
