A miracle, my aunts and mother chorus—
Grandma’s up and about frying fish,
singing old hymns.
The last hurrah, Uncle whispers in my ear.
We’re on the porch looking out at the scorched garden.
Rains are coming, Grandma would say
whenever it got so hot.
I spot a green bud amongst brown
worm-coiled leaves. Maybe a sign,
once again, I’ll spy on Grandma
sponging her naked torso,
stifle my giggles with my arm as she throws
her long breasts one by one over her shoulders,
sucking her teeth, Essie,
you laughing at me?