and now the piano keys,
sharp teeth, black legged
(I am sure music travels)
stare in a foyer towards
a kitchen where
my grandmother died
there, beside the oven
(was she humming as
she inhaled?)
No judgements
in an obituary
that read:
send flowers
in lieu of money.
She never tolerated
flowers, their silenced,
their funeral-ed perfect
beauty, their lack of hair.
Roses are incapable
of singing, nor
jasmine compose
high notes
in troubled times.
And magnolias
never breath
or play piano
like Marie
as
she divined.
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