The paper bag was fattened with unwanted information.
Requests for unavailable generosity,
political asylum at her kitchen table.
Fashions and recipes once flirtatious,
shredded by her own hand
as another wasteland bulged at her slippers.

But I could not write her poetry
as I brought her a bowl of vanilla ice cream.
I could not find the words to attack her world of solitude
and seal her smile.

So, I held her hand
and we’d walk up the steps to the old parlor.
She’d sit, talk while I stared at the shipwrecked life jacket, frame encased.
I'd wander into the kitchen with its heavy handle
and big hinged ice boxed gallery wall and listen.

I’d take her hand.
And we’d walk, pushing aside heavy curtains, dust illuminated,
making our way through the maze lit by red glass and tremulous flames.

At ninety-two if you asked her,
she’d laugh and throw up her hands, seizing her freedom
from the women who knew nothing, stepping outside her shelter.

But I cannot write her poetry,
I can only inhale the mystery filling my lungs.
I can only feel her warmth.

jeannerene 6/26