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.
