Memere
I’m the oldest grandchild, and knew her when she
Was my age, looking like me, full-lipped, dark-haired,
With a bitter bite behind the eyes.
The emphysema leaves her like a leaf,
Light and shaky: breathless.
She is displaced, the language foreign.
I think she wants to be back in Canada,
Wishes she never left Ontario’s plains of
Clear, high light, black spruce, dying lakes.
I’d like to hold her like a baby,
I’d like to take her by the hand
And lead her home.
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