by Jake Lord '19
Grandmother’s red chair lingers In the living room, and A duster rests on its arm – Forgetting to dust years ago. . This wine whispers denial; Its bottles line her spice drawer — She had vied for thyme but grabbed merlot. Tired, retired, she resides to her chair. . This ominous mass mildews me Like a fifty year old Oak waiting to grow and You’ve truncated my sixty year pain and You’ve ruined my life she says and I’d rather collapse into my chair than be here, Jeanette says. . Her wisdom has waned like the ennui flavor Of old porridge. The taste of old platitudes once Comforted but now numb like raw ginger; I wish for hugging matriarchal wisdom – lost From a forgetful red throne.