Sunday, April 13, 2014

Making Apple Sauce with my Dead Grandmother — National Poetry Month

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-- 

Everything hurts. 

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

?Bianca Stone


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