by mickharris

so my grandma may be dying

she is, but we don’t know how slowly

and all i can feel

is bits of poetry beginning in my head

i hear the first lines

see them on the paper

and a shape of a book


a project

about my family


threaded through it has to be a real number, an accord

a reckoning

of all the times i said she was horrible

a bitch

a cunt

did you know your grandfather calls her that word

what word?

a cunt

all the time

he just calls her that


“i love her mom but she’s a bitch”

there’s no room for that



“she’s a bitch, but i love her”




a narrative of isolation and better-than

when i realize sitting next to her that everyone is right

we’re almost exactly alike

and i can feel our breathing, together

for the first time in my life

i can see her for a whole person


isn’t that a luxury

isn’t that kind of me

to do so almost, almost when it feels like it might be too late


isn’t that nice.