For Kitty Before You Die - Lara Stokes poem

For Kitty Before You Die

- Lara Stokes -

This is me, Granny, weeping
awkwardly, a hushed, hurried
‘I love you’ that may never register.
Our distance gives its comforts, but
I wish I ached, I wish a fear
for you would rise. On the phone
you didn’t know me;
we discussed the family,
the weather, and when our silence swelled
into my hands, I hung up.

At my age, you were tricked into
becoming a sweet and sick man’s wife.
When at first you didn’t deliver, his father
offered services, taking your money
making you their maid. No wonder
my mother was never kissed, no
wonder my aunts are bitter
and twisted- you could barely find love
yourself. I’ll not ask for any more;
I’ll bury the cancer with my doubt.

I am saving for a hat
to wear for your wake. I will pass
tea in pink china to guests
in your living room. I will hold
all the hands that are bound to unravel.
Defeated, I’ll feel failed. I tried,
and in your way, you tried,
tossing money on your bedspread.
Kitty, I’ll cry for your poor bones, for your
orchard your son made into a rally track.

main Issue 38 : March 2008 POEMS Lara Stokes - A Prayer for My Father Lara Stokes - For Kitty Before You Die Lara Stokes - Yes, You William J. Gibson - 38 Years William J. Gibson - On Sunday Morning William J. Gibson - Old Habit PREVIOUS ISSUE Index to back issues by subject contents Copyright © 2008 William J. Gibson or the specified author	For Kitty Before You Die - Lara Stokes - Copyright © 2008 Lara Stokes This is me, Granny, weeping awkwardly, a hushed, hurried ‘I love you’ that may never register. Our distance gives its comforts, but I wish I ached, I wish a fear for you would rise. On the phone you didn’t know me; we discussed the family, the weather, and when our silence swelled into my hands, I hung up. At my age, you were tricked into becoming a sweet and sick man’s wife. When at first you didn’t deliver, his father offered services, taking your money making you their maid. No wonder my mother was never kissed, no wonder my aunts are bitter and twisted- you could barely find love yourself. I’ll not ask for any more; I’ll bury the cancer with my doubt. I am saving for a hat to wear for your wake. I will pass tea in pink china to guests in your living room. I will hold all the hands that are bound to unravel. Defeated, I’ll feel failed. I tried, and in your way, you tried, tossing money on your bedspread. Kitty, I’ll cry for your poor bones, for your orchard your son made into a rally track.