Grandma Hope




She is as she has always been, every feather

precisely placed like a great bird.

Clothes so naturally arranged it seems

they could never part with their frame.

Such is the anatomy of her wardrobe.


The bright pop of the jewel-toned tank-top

peeking with a curious eye, barely visible

above her breast, preened and pressed.

Gently diffusing in a gradient into her

skin, translucent and striped with veins of blue and pink.


Gliding up to her throat, where the vessels branch.

A fragile yoke to cup, nest-like, the necklace.

White gold set with a stone perfectly

echoing the vibrancy of the camisole

smartly shrouding the downy bosom.


A blazer fashioned by her own clever stitch

patterned to peak in stiff meringue shoulders

trimming the berry body with lean panels.

Three-quarter sleeves terminating in neatly folded croissants

just beyond the softly rounded, milk-white of her elbows

to effect leanness of the upper arm.


Highlighting the artistry of her wrist, a watch with a shy sparkle.

Piano hands cleanly manicured, naturally tapered,

hesitant, hands made for the deliberate fastening

of a button, the smooth, singular motion

adorning the lapel with the required brooch.

Her instinctual attention to detail, like a prey animal.


Space must be used, a musician conducting

the beautiful power of silence in composition.

Off white linen pants are the cadence,

the muted swathing of the hip, the knee.

A creamy decadence halved exactly

down the center, an ironed seam,


to just brush the top of the foot.

Narrow twins slipped to the tiptoes

of velvet and leather,

where she comes to an end,

and the world begins


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