Grandmother stands on the porch
wearing only her slip, handbag looped over her arm.
She tells us the minister has come by,
she’s sure he wants to have sex with her.
We amble into the house,
Mother goes straight for the kitchen.
I sit with grandmother in the living room stacked
high with Better Homes and Gardens magazines.
The Christmas tree is up―it is April.
Grandmother announces
I never did know what to do with your mother.
Her sister was so compliant, but your mother—
Mother scrapes crusted casserole from plates.
Grandmother tells me grandfather isn’t home.
I am glad. The last time he kissed
me on the mouth and put both of his hands
on the back pockets of my jeans.
Mother went white―in a hissed whisper she said,
don’t let him touch you like that.
On the ride home, I look out the window,
miles and miles of Florida wetlands―
Heavy rain pounds the car.
Mother has her sunglasses on.
She looks straight ahead.
She hasn’t said a word.
I want to tell her I love her.
But she won’t say it back, so I don’t.
And no one can predict
when the ground will open
and swallow us whole.
