Mirrors Where Bass Should Be

My grandmother was afraid 

of the river. She doesn’t approach it, even

in dreams, but comes back

to melancholy me again, shining

 

with shards of a wayward past—

berries, bruises, dark blue hues, 

the long goodbye of blackbirds.

 

Cooling coffee and half-peeled nail polish,

cacophony of pool balls clacking together.

Grits in the morning, Chex Mix at night.

My grandfather wrote the Snake-Eaters Almanac,

 

blessed me with honeysuckle braids

shaking no at any sign of snow. Strange,

how three-dimensional this daylight makes me

look. Even I can see 

 

the splintered cello heart, hear its song

rattling around inside girlish ribs.

I wish this didn’t feel so much like loss,

like becoming a woman all over again—

 

antique call bells ringing and ringing,

the dead doe that doesn’t stay dead,

shattered coffee cup, color red.

This day blooming beyond the window,

 

blue-shock and brilliant.

This love song I can’t seem to shake.

This memory.

This fish, dead at my fingertips.

This pair of ghosts waiting in the corner.