by Nicole Markert
I mutter bitch,
I spew
spit
through my dentures.
It splatters
onto my finished word searches
as my granddaughter
places four aces as a set.
We never have enough space for cards,
my medication scattered.
We play on my wooden dining room table.
She wins the game.
I don’t mind. My mind is going.
The school bus drops her off every day
near the weeping cherries.
I watch her wave,
as she passes my window
to climb up the front
porch stairs.
She is a weeping cherry
but I don’t tell her that—
She’ll act like an
airhead.
I tell her the little girl
down the street is better &
she snorts. I tell her she’ll spew snot.
As she grows into her wide boned body,
she will wear those words like
thick bark. When called ugly bitch,
she will throw her head back,
laugh, gasp & say Thank you, I know.
