At nine, I still could climb on grandma’s lap
to find solace on the perfumed pillows where
I’d lay my head to hear her breath go by.

Dandy was always the good provider.

He walked all nine miles home
to tell of the birth of little Billy —
not so with the four girls.

You know, I think old Mac— he died of grief.

She’d let me stroke the pendulum of flesh
that dangling from the center of her throat.
I rubbed between my thumb and right forefinger
imagining speckled down on the quail’s breast.

That year she planted Dandy, a skinny dogwood
in the dry brown stubble of the Oklahoma grass.
She felt it would swell up in March and bloom.
I never stopped to question how she got that
yellow flap of skin upon her neck.
I’d seen it happen all the summers of my life.

He’d drawn up to his stature and commanded,
“Dencie get in here.” And Grandma’s
lively frame responded, hastening steps
to yield her face, lifted her short plump arms.

Then with no sound, he clutched her throat and lifted
her up. Grandma travelled a full twelve inches for the kiss.
I held my breath until he’d put her down.