Filled strawberry hard candies 
and Everyone's grandmother. 

Everyone's grandmother had a jar of candy used
to be an ashtray. Everyone grandmother flattened 
out the wrappers of filled strawberry hard candies
on their lap before they put them in the waste
basket. Everyone's grandmother had a crucifix.
A angel statue. A scrub brush for vegetables
shaped like a bear. A scale with fake grapes.
Everyone's grandmother had teddy bears that
weren't meant to be played with.
My grandmother had a divine order of cats
all named after musicians and it was Mozart 
who ripped my long black skirt and Amadeus
who died so old that he looked like he
was made from piper cleaners and pastrami. 
Wolfgang cut open wrists and went back to the shelter.
Bach tumbled in sun spots and eat only
half a can of wet food. 
Everyone's grandmother
and only my grandmother baked sweet potatoes in
medallions and paged through "Cat Fancy"
like a gossip magazine. 
I do not know if it is my grandmother
or everyone's grandmother who has
an obsession with their grandchild's bodies--
maybe it is because they know they
left pieces of themselves in their 
own daughters-- everyone's grandmother bought
them gingerbread cookies for every holiday.
I ate the eyes out of bunnies at Easter
and licked the white-sugar-doily borders 
of bells for Winter. It might have been
everyone's grandmother or my own grandmother
who glared at me when I licked the crumbs 
of cookies off my lap. 
Well, you're getting 
fat, you're getting fat
you're getting fat
she said 
with stacks of raisin-eyed cookies and jars 
of bleeding strawberry candy 
meant for everyone's grandmother's
coffee tables. 
Everyone's grandmother had a guest
room and bed with cover too thick
to sleep under.
Everyone's grandmother left
your clothing smelling like 
cigarettes and purple candle wax.
Everyone's grandmother saw their
grandchild as beasts-- waist band 
challenging tyrants with lap
of crumbs and back seats of juice
box stains-- eating from buffets with
their pork-roll fingers--
Everyone's grandmother stacked
cookies on their grandchildren's
heads-- told them to walk to the
duck pond and back on the red stoned
walkways. Everyone's grandmother
weighed them on the scale next to the fake
grapes-- everyone grandmother was a 
pipe-cleaner cat and warm porch
with baked sweet potatoes. Everyone's
grandmother hung a crucifix from the chandelier
in their apartment and taught 
their cats to dance to overtures
before the blankets swelled like
children bellies and sweet potatoes.
My grandmother loved me, I assume.
Everyone's grandmother loves them
like filled strawberry candies in ashtrays, 
fat sugar-cookie crumbs, and the 
teddy bears not meant to be played with
tucked under the blankets in the
guest room.