septuagenarian late grandma
on her deathbed asked for coke
so she got coke
a light cup that
weighed so much
it pulled on every string of my heart
my tears ran
late grandma
dead and sound now
quiet as a graveyard
it is better that way
she is somewhere anyway
perhaps resting quietly in a seed
waiting for her next leap
forward to another realm
cooooooooola
inspired by
A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink—
I hunted all the Sand—
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand—
His Mighty Balls—in death were thick—
But searching—I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water—and of me—
'Twas not my blame—who sped too slow—
'Twas not his blame—who died
While I was reaching him—
But 'twas—the fact that He was dead—
Emily Dickinson
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem