She lay on the tattered sofa,
A raisin shrouded in brilliant afghans
That her own hands,
Now crooked weeds,
Had given birth to years before
The tawny halo of the dimming lightbulb
Sketched shadows in the creases of her face,
Crinkled by stories and laughter,
A dull copper penny
Molded by time
Her pygmied frame
Had melted into dusty, crocheted pillows
And her sunken breast flickered
With each gasp
Of cinnamon and mothballs
But her obsidian eyes
Never stopped singing
And just before the antique clock on the mantle struck,
I saw her through a salty haze
Winking love and life into me
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