The Awful Rowing
Brittany Lynn Beavin
Once,
My Grandmother was Anne Sexton
In a photo
With hair rolled back softly,
Thoughtful eyes,
Married woman at nineteen.
But, now,
Grandma is framed in a mauve motorized armchair
And a tired yellow house
On
Always,
A fist-sized ceramic toad
Hides behind her black-and-white TV
In the dining room
From fickle, flitting Dollar General angel figurines.
Out of crackled green, blue-black,
Glazed and shimmering
Sludge of skin cloak,
Rainbow crystal eyes scintillate
With her life’s secrets,
Things I will never know
To revere her for –
1943,
A miscarriage while he was at war.
She never told him.
So much blood down the bathtub drain.
1954,
Accepted fifty dollars from her parents
To tide them over
When he hurt his back.
1965,
She thought it was a mistake
To send troops into
1982,
Her first grandchild is born.
She will always furtively love him the most.
1996,
She falls and dislocates her hip.
No one sees
The momentary flash
Of fear in her eyes.
She will no longer be able
To take her morning walks in the park.
2007,
Benign, benign, please benign…
Money goes down the drain over the years.
Always very proud,
She will keep them away;
She won’t tell anyone.
Her pain alone.
No autopsy,
And we’ll never know.
But,
Until then
Her body curls,
Withering on that mauve velour
Under the faded pink afghan.
With the pills
And the daily doses of Pat Sajak at 6:30 P.M.
She completes
“The awful rowing toward God.”