poetry critical

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Grandma you didn’t wait for me.
I got lost in your tomato garden.
Green leafy dressed debutantes
plump red lipstick,
dancing plum cheeks.
They spun me
around and around,
till I got dizzy and
forgot I was a child-
remembered I was dreaming.
Your thick grandma hands wake
me up mornings, kneeding my
brain, wrinkling its wrinkles
between floured fingers.
You sit like misses potato head
on my shelf.
Holes where your ears should be.
Holes where your eyes could be.
I take an old italian women's mustache,
push it and pull it over your lips.
I stuff basil leaves behind your
your ears.
I call 1-800-grandma
with fingers tied, hairs tied,
toes tied, tummies tied.
I toss hail mary's down
Bronx alleys like bowling
ball bait.
And as old wooden spoons
turn autumn Sundays
belly up in bubbling
I make one wish:
just to hear my mother
say mom.

19 Mar 07

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This is very beautiful. Makes me want to know Sally.

I love those potato heads. They were fun, no? Your nana sounds lovely.

Thanks for the read,
 — PollyReg

Enjoyed the dance, the ride, the spin, the dream's imagery. What a beautiful tribute to her.
What a finely crafted sweet piece. Ripe with imagery and original metaphors and scenes.
I can feel the soothing of those floured hands on my brain.
Line 19 perhaps should read woman's? Line 21-22 has a double your?
Tossing hail mary's down Bronx alleys... lovely.
 — sandburger