To My Grandmother, a Church
Confusing the pipe organ of the church —
its brass pattern as tall as the wall—
with the radiators of my grandmother’s lowly
livingroom, dining room, kitchen, den,
was the confusion of a small boy’s perspective
And the unmet desire to hear the water hum a full scale —
rushing and clunking through the cold walls —
leaning on the edge of a low whistle
for a final chorus, a chant,
an old synapse, still strummed on winter nights
And the apparition of her sitting in the dark at the kitchen table,
the sharp ember of a Virginia Slim bobbing,
dipping low like a hot metronome,
and a rush of quick white smoke
from her lips like steam — from her lips like a thin ghost.
