In my dream it’s August in Houston;
My grandmother brings out cut-up pineapple to the yard
Inside a shiny, green bowl.
I devour the uneven, yellow cubes with my hands,
Pick apart the fibers,
Lick the sweet juice that drips down my arms.
The willow’s long, hanging leaves sway, heavy in the sticky breeze,
They barely make a sound, because
Cicadas hum so loud,
It feels like they are inside my head.
The sun sets the sky ablaze behind the slanted roof where we used to throw
basketballs to watch them roll back down, and thump.
My grandmother watches me eat up
her offering,
One after another
Slow,
Trepid
bite.
My mouth stings.
When I finish, she transmutes
Becomes yellowed willow leaves that blow into the swimming pool,
Full of tadpoles and teenaged frogs.
I am eight years old again,
Just arrived here from the plane,
Feeling the fall chill on my face,
I sob giant tears into the shiny green bowl and
It fills with willow leaves.
My grandmother has been dead for 10 years.