Hear the waft of a song of spices
the shriveled shavings peppering
candle-burned beige
my grandmother spreads wisdom
like a silk of butter on rye
(only when there’s fish in
the oven) as she asks
What, angel? calls me what skies
are made of      dust
lets me salt the gravy      trust
when her blues lock mine
we smile a moonbow to fruition
she painted for her sick
mother slippin like no other
when her mother’s last breath
ascended she traded etchings
for eggs and allspice and amaretto
but she’s an artist in and out
of the apron and brush      
attend this the ceremonial hush
this the rub this the cinnamon-coriander
before her grand unveiling anticipated
this the Supper Proper exhaled
and not a dry eye after the heap
of noodles slides once-belligerent
uncles to slumber under blankets
and me and granny, Bobbie, sit
perched on a boa blue couch
she touches my head soft
like I like and I fall back
to rest.
Shayla Lawson