CONFESSION
Grandmother,
too many times I try to wash off
the stars of your stigmata
only to smell of lavender.
I sip free coffee
at a Woolworth’s counter,
try to swallow the coin
you slipped my tongue as I slept.
Do you still yearn
to come back a grizzly,
gold button in your ear?
At night I whisper,
like chipped porcelain,
prayers I can’t remember.
We will plant you at the roots of a Pacific mountain,
a seam of taconite
in a gingham dress.
I will flaw every quilt after you,
sew a square of red at the center.
When my stitching frays, promise
paw prints in the bunting.
pea river journal 
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