When it comes to my branch
the tree just stops
so that it becomes for now,
at least, like the verb to be:
all intention. There I sit
in the arms of the tree
not yet an old woman.
On either side, halfway down,
dangle the two
grandmothers, hanging on
to the feet of the husbands.
The grandfathers
are more alike than not: one
with his buttons and pots.
The other on his porch
in old Jerusalem:
he would like to throw eggs
at the couple who bicycle
past, on the Sabbath.
Instead, he traces the letters
in an old book: they seem
raised to him, square
like small temples—and here
is his legacy to me. Shame,
I believe he would say,
but I think with an odd
pride in it: a granddaughter
who looks into the faces
of the words, feels their teeth
in her, like the woman
who nursed a litter of cats
instead of her own children.
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