Grandmother

Tony Wang

Dust off the shoulder of the castle 

like a paper crane carrying gold

sun along a string—

a vigil for the sleeping years.

Funny, but when it comes

down to it, I never give much

thought to whether my words move

the hinges of consciousness 

or form the tongue of truth: sometimes

words elude me. Like flotsam caught

between two rocks, floating

my way from place to place. If only my 

words could save the world a burning

sadness, to know loss

(distant and near alike)

only to make room for acceptance.

Maybe if I show you

how long and deep and vast

is the sea that surrounds me

you’ll get the feeling.

But it’s not just about emotion.

It’s about everything she’s left behind.

My grandmother was a mean woman.

An awful person, a loyal friend,

and a loving daughter. A caring

nurse and a cruel mother, 

a kind sister and an old 

soul. And I saw that because

it’s in my genes: to move across time

without feeling. It’s not a

muscle, it’s a skin, like it’s paper

that won’t rip and tear with the seepage

of things too far to see. How I

trace every nucleotide, climbing along

every coiled ladder in these bones—

if only to find the history left over. A leaf

could float my way, whatever. But it’s

only me who sees the blood

running through my veins, just the same.

* * *