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My Grandmother

Those who can not forgive
stare at the candle
standing tall—well lit.

Unhuman reflections
of the fallen one
encase their heart.
They can not care.
My memory travels
to an old woman's hands
carved as the bark
on the branches of a tree,

to her face that is like an ocean
with many pathways.
Steamliners have coursed
these waters,
some over and over,
some ravaged by pirates,
some were pirates.

(Unnavigated before—
fates Virgin, with
few charts made
of her own doing—
a fragment of
the divine compass
rests in her hand
to guide her.)

Each path moves
like the waves of the ocean
when greeting you
with her smile.
Her eyes—
small flowering seeds of light
that wait for you—
will catch you up
like that raccoon
on a pitch black road
with high beams on.
Frozen, you can not turn
from what she sees.
Already she has forgiven you.

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