After the Visit: Poetry

By Lin Lifshin


flat blue hills


yellow light.

November in the

old house. The


walls pull from

the floor, she

barely knows me

or my voice. Stained


Chinese carpet.

My grandmother

wrapped in blue sheets


on the chair where

her old man sat


and stopped her

from singing 60

years, now under

the blanket in

her own dark


singing you are

my the midnight

leaves, her arms

growing smaller

sunshine my only