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The Photograph
(for Grandma Jane)
By Brian Dickson

She sits between us in the polaroid,
like she always sat between boyhood
mischief, that time we wrestled
in the pool; her way of being involved
with her grandchildren.
And here, she puckers drawing us
in one last time as we sidle
to both of her cheeks, and as all
kisses are somehow convalescent,
she takes ours, blows like the big bad
wolf, telling that brick house of phlegm
and emphysema to rebuild elsewhere
as the aspirator crumbles,
that her charred voice swallows
those smoky tears, regains
some of her secretarial wit,
that nothing bosses
her around anymore.