for my grandmother
She flew to see us, my First
Memory, Beautiful Manicured
Hand—Jonelle
with those little pills in her purse,
malaria medication—
I’d say I heard them shake
but I’m not sure.
Jonelle—getting sicker by
the day, the doctors
holding her hand, my grandfather
holding back her blonde hair
as she vomits into the basin,
nobody knowing
these little pills were worse
than that which they prevented.
We had flown in the night
before the funeral.
I stayed home that day,
knowing nothing
besides lobster for lunch.
Lobster—what a thing!
I opened the fridge, peering
over their cold, slowed forms,
red as blood turning
through tubes. Hours later,
the adult processional into
the kitchen—I was picked up
so many times, the kitchen light
so close to my head, the scuttle
of lobsters a susurrus
beneath the talk of Jonelle.
Boiling water, the room hot
with relatives—I wanted to know,
I wanted to know what was going
to happen to the lobsters.
Dangled over the water, one dropped
with a plunk by my uncle.
The screaming. Adults talking
about Jonelle, the flowers.
Sick yellow of rhododendrons.
The kitchen filled with
the screaming of lobsters.
