The bowl

Grandmother calls it a basinette;
It mirrors my reflection beneath
The ornate mirror on the wall
Of the chamber I now occupy,
Until I dip my fingers into the hearth warmed
Liquid to splash my filthy skin.

This morning she added wilted ivory rose petals,
Just as her skin, and I knew to feel fear.
I dipped my fingers in the fragrant deathly garden,
Comparing her aged skin to mine.
Our herb garden has no flowers and grandmother
Never buys them.

The sun is barely seeping through my draperies,
And I strain to hear strangers' voices
In the kitchen below my creaking floorboards.
The occasional clash of pots and pans and the fragrance
Of unusual foods simmering with a mixture
Of pollen and lilies.

I grasp the basinette in a heartless embrace and tiptoe down the velvet stairs, through the front hall,
And into the great room with all of grandfather's
Mahogany.
My arms outstretched to present the wilted dampness,
To grandmother holding those same ivory roses
Over my grandfather's open coffin.
Oct. 12, 1999