I never, once, saw my grandmother cry.
No tears but I do remember seeing
multi-colored bruises in shades of the galaxy.
Purples, blues and blacks,
bruises from which varicose veins carried blue blood
toward island-sized splotches as if to say
I am here and I’ve worked hard and I am bruised because of it
do you see me now?
When I close my eyes
I see my grandmother on her hands and knees
scrubbing olive-colored carpet with the fancy swirls,
which meets up with unfinished floorboards housing hoards of dead flies.
A Cool Whip bucket of soapy water and a bristle brush
on two palms with Palmolive and two bruised knees asking
no one for help as if it was hers alone to clean,
no one asked if they could help because
the floor belongs to no one until it’s time to sweep
or mop or suck or scrub and then it belongs to her.
My grandmother had porcelain colored skin,
not smooth like glass but hardened by double shifts and
sinks full of fish yet to scale
because no one eats if generations of women
don’t work to work to work to work to
plate to plate to plate to plate what’s setting before you.
My grandmother said
slacks and shears and skeins and
here, have another slice of blackberry pie.