Off Her Rocker…
…but not quite crazy:
an old chair on a large hearth,
its memories now tinder. Sitting
on embers, nursing flames, lulling the
chill of the room to sleep. Her own babies
grown, her motherhood ash, that piece of
furniture decayed. Now the fireworks of dried
pine begins: where the runners curl into spirals
is a Catherine’s Wheel. The canning catches like
prairie grass after a lightning bolt of rejection. All that
baby puke, so flammable. If ever she’s a grandma,
she’ll need a new rocker, this one’s rolling up
the chimney, bundling up those hours, incinerating that
distant time of constant changing.