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.


Trey Hayden

Shayla Lawson