When I was a girl

old women were large & square fronted,

upholstered, wore stiff black shoes

cut open for toes & bunions, showed

traces of powder at temples & chins,

moved slowly, smelled of Jergens lotion,

pulled handkerchiefs out of sleeves

with oversized hands, their hair pale, thin,

tightly bound, skin bruised purple,

spotted brown, they held purses

with both hands. At rest they knitted,

crocheted & tatted, drank coffee, served

homemade cookies, iced cakes,

kept candy in covered glass bowls,

fed stray dogs & cushion-curled cats.

Celia never rose from her chair.

My grandma Jones almost never smiled.

Men walked by or around them

as if they weren’t there. Now we four

are the old women, titanium jointed

in dark cotton slacks, loose curly

hair, at least two wear slip-on Clarks.

Each one sips their favorite drink —

wine, Dr. Pepper, & unsweet tea,

soup for dinner is vegetable beef,

homemade. Two of us huddle

with multiple remotes next to the TV

determined to find the broadcast channel

showing tonight’s NBA —

when we succeed we leave it on for hours

as if it were the great outdoors

instead of a charity documentary

on cleft palate repair. No one else

looks up or seems to hear

until I ask to have it changed. These

could be blown-up children, run over

or shot at school, at the mall, in the street

& doctors trying to make them whole

while I’m looking away, putting them in the poem.