If I wanted to write something important, I would write about my grandmother,
About how she is more mountain than woman, and how the “I love you” that lingers in the back of my throat belongs to her.
Her voice is the only melody I will never grow tired of hearing; she sounds like a choir in the heart of a church.
I turn her chest into a home, wrap my skin around her bones.
I memorize the rhythm of her ribcage constantly collapsing with her lungs like waves crashing into the shore, she adds a new meaning to the word harmony.
My grandmother teaches me about God; she tells me my name holds great power, that it is a prayer no bible can handle.
She takes a needle and thread and teaches me how to sew myself to the ground, how to plant myself and let my roots roam.
Poem by: Carla Lupou