THE STEGER Prize For Poetry
Limbo
by James Dishman
Grandma said her knees are rocking chairs.
Said they squeak something awful on the inside.
Every time she moves,
Squeak.
I tell her I don't hear a thing.
So I sit, and she rocks.
Grandma's face got lines.
Deep lines.
Decades of time,
Whittled into the grooves of her face.
I learn that a tree tells time.
Tells you what it's seen, where it's been.
Grandma's face does the same,
It's like braille.
When I touch it, it speaks.
I think it's a voice inside of me.
Something only I can hear.
Tells me if I stay too long,
I'll start rocking.
The sun rises and we don't speak.
We think.
Grandma keeps rocking as she thinks.
She rocks herself to before the lines came.
When she sat, and others rocked,
And there she stays.
My eyes squint towards the horizon.
While my legs dangle off the porch,
Swinging.
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