Making Apple Sauce with my Dead Grandmother
I dig her up and plop her down in a wicker chair.
She's going to make apple sauce and I'm going to get drunk.
She's cutting worms out of the small green apples from the back
and I'm opening up a bottle. It erects like a tower
in the city of my mouth.
The way she makes apple sauce it has ragged
strips of skin and spreads thickly over toast.
It's infamous; eating it is as close to God as I'm going to get,
but I don't tell her. There's a dishtowel wrapped around her head
to keep her jaw from falling slack--
But I don't tell her that either. I have to stand at the callbox
and see what words I can squeeze in. I'm getting worried.
If I dig her up and put her down in the wicker chair
I'd better be ready for the rest of the family
to make a fuss. I better bring her back right.
The whole house smells of cinnamon and dust.
We don't speak. She's piling the worms up in a bowl
and throwing them back into the yard.
by Bianca Stone
About this poem:
"What you don't realize about elegies, until someone you love dies, is that the reality of loss is fleeting. It then becomes something imaginary in your mind; a horror story you're addicted to. I approach the elegy trying to understand the moment they ceased to be in this world; the difference between the two realities. It creates a third: that delicious and devastating, invented garden that is poetry." — Bianca Stone