written By
my grandfather is
grains of sand floating
to the bottom of an
hourglass. he is a sun
dial measuring flashes
by the wrinkles of his
skin. grandpa is a
chief broker, bartering
litanies to stave off
the reaper. he is a
mound of earth littered
by the scattered frag-
ments of weakness.
a cigarette in the old-
school hand, an oxygen
tank in his left
the inside track is a
rugged curve-ball,
tattered bibles and
wooden church pews.
preacher teachings
and musty hymnals,
a burial ground for
miscues and fumbles,
to ripen into compost or resurrection.
-
Ash Slade lives in Wolcott, Connecticut. In her spare time, she composes and reads poems and short stories. Previous publications include: The Lincoln Underground, Trouvaille Review, and most recently in October Hill.
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