My grandmother had cacti in her kitchen
when I was young and we were poor
and my mother and sisters and I
all lived in one room in her house.
She watered them sometimes
and always warned us not to touch them.
"I don't want to pull any more cactus spikes
out of little girls' fingers" she would say,
"I'll borrow your mom's pocket knife
to pull them out of your tiny hands."
My grandmother had ferns
lining the entire outside of her blue house
when we were poor and we all lived
in one room above hers. I heard once
that ferns have been around since the age
of the dinosaurs, and I imagined
grandma's ferns being eaten by triceratops.
I ran with my kite trying to get it off the ground.
It just skittered in the grass like a wild animal,
caught in the ferns again and again.
My grandmother had a tall tree in her yard
when I was young and we were poor
and all living on the second floor.
My oldest sister climbed to the very top of it,
holding onto the spindly branch in the center,
swaying in the wind like a boat on the water.
I watched her through the kitchen window,
idly picking at the cactus
like a living play thing.
I got spikes stuck in my fingers,
little splinters in my skin, invaders
in my small fingers as brittle and delicate as glass.
Grandma watered the cacti
then picked them out
with a knife.
YOU ARE READING
These People and I
PoesiaThis year for National Poetry Writing Month, I want to challenge myself by mostly writing about people I wouldn't normally write about. This could include people from my past, present, or even future. I'll be adding a new poem by midnight each day i...
