41
Curdling
by Megan LeAnne
“…age doesn’t necessarily bring anything with it, save itself. The rest is optional.”
-Maggie Nelson
My grandmother’s hair wasps into a careless bouquet
on the crown of her withering body. Withering not with
weeping or with the claw and jab of frost, but with nicotine,
fermented barley ashing on her own flesh, mustard seed teeth
and lips like red dirt tire tracks; but with Autumn wind grip
on wet pant leg, pant leg spiked in sour-must, urine river
spilling from her holy; but with knowing that death is not a thing
to be thrown from an open window or a thing to be spat upon
or buried beneath a mountain of buckets; but with knowing death
as merciless creature, inviting it inside with Darjeeling and chunky sugar.
Once, my grandmother tossed me her keys, I drove us down
Tennessee backroads. Me, with fresh pressed driving permit,
her with brown paper bag pacified to the mouth. We
as merciless creature, inviting it inside with Darjeeling and chunky sugar.