i.

one might call her a matriarch,
             but the lilt in her voice that

sounds like a hummingbird
             perched upon rusty nails, &

the acrid scent of redolent myrrh that makes my
             eyes sting & nerves fray

will never be enough to convince me
             she is anything but Grandmother.

ii.

the prudence that once defined her
             now gives way to pearl-painted coupes & an abundance of liquor.

her presence no longer prompts straighter postures;
             her ebony hair has withered into ash.

through all the hemmings & re-hemmings, age still
             peeks out through the cracks in her whalebone corset—

hera to juno, not realizing they are
             one & the same, parallel universes.

iii.

the golden clock turns grayer as it ticks;
             the same shade as the eyes that once gazed into mine,

lips crooning stories into the stillness of the night,
             somnolent lullabies coaxing my eyes shut.

words once held so dear
             now nothing more than broken syllables,

lost upon ears that have been
             wearied by the endless babble, by the

world that just keeps on
             turning.

when did my shrine to her
             morph into a shroud?

halcyon was not halcyon
             the day the clock struck nothing.