my grandmother fits in the downstairs closet.

my grandmother's possessions
unraveled around her like her own
forgetful body-- piece
by piece we tucked
her relics in the corners
of our own house-- filled the
closet downstairs with
flimsy cardboard boxes of
her clothing she no longer wore--
tight-fitting orange gloves & 
the scarf printed with 
tabby cats-- stacked layers of
the picture frames
from the end table in her 
dismantled guest room 
--her parlour
chairs with ornate wooden
arms eloped during our
first june yard sale
-- the blue sofa 
still coughing up decades of 
cigarette sleet
waited at the end of
the driveway with the
blue garbage cans.
i know very little about my grandmother.
i don't think i ever had a conversation
with her longer than a few words
-- our love for
each other was obligatory--
measured in leathery lips
on an awkward fat-faced child--
her love did not allow feet on the sofa 
& warned you about
the precarious edges of
her glass coffee tables--
her loved manifested in 
tiny packages of holiday cookies
from Wholefood's bakery up the street
-- bunnies
at easter-- hearts for valentine's
day-- bells around christmas--
our love exchange was ritual--
acceptance of the treat & 
a kiss & my quiet feast from the
backseat of her car as she
would scold my plump fingers
& thighs for wanting to be
eight & thick & 
unafraid to eat the raisin 
eyes from gingerbread bunnies--
she forgot me long before she
died-- 
god broke her  
into two beings--
one stuffed into our closet--
haunting a pile of objects
& the other hovered over a white
bed
in the nursing home- there she
rested lightly as one side 
of a parenthesis--
beanie babies collecting on her dresser--
she knew she was a being
of fragmentation--
now at night sometimes i go 
downstairs in the house i 
don't live in anymore--
i open her closet--put
on her orange gloves
so i can try to imagine what
occasion she
bought them for-- i open
a pack of cigarettes & pretend to
smoke-- arrange
the picture frames
around me in a circle
to summon 
her away from the 
paleness of medical equipment
& burning lights in hospitals--
she rises from
the floor-- removes her boombox
from the back of the closet--
puts a cassette tape of
Amadeus-- sways slow 
from the safety of
the circle-- pulls me
in & we both
wear the orange gloves--
cigarette ash falls
like blizzard--
she's brought me a package
of gingerbread doves--
break break them in half
to share.