Nineteen
hair piled high
afternoons on
the wooden verandah
of Kick's Hotel
where
her mother
dressed
in black
moves
like a cloud
behind
the soft screen door
fabricating
tiny
wreaths
from
light brown hair
grandmother is passing the time
around like cupcakes at nineteen
rhythms of porch swings
father and brother recently dead
locks of their hair
braided in
mourner's jewellry
summer afternoon
several young men are
tipping their hats to grandmother
sooner or later
grandfather will pass
he is the icing
he is the season
he will die too
of course
men always do
