Don’t explain

by Grace Marie Grafton

She used red jello in the hospital dish

to look through. Sugar and

horses’ hooves, dissolved to stiff

clear then doused with chemical

red, provided a lens to illuminate

the meaning of the empty window

by her aging bed. She could hold

up squares between two fingers,

parts of her still worked.

Her lack of understanding about

human nature was generous.

Confusion over the mess created

a red gleam, kernelled in her brain.

At times, it germinated (especially

when night and sleep in the hospital

room wasn’t allowed to be night

and sleep) and saturated her body

with hot red weather.

This was the end (patience her long

last lesson). She did wish for

blue revelation but revelation

never constellated for her,

revolving as she did between

drinking glasses on the table

and the crest of the slope where

poppies (their intoxicating gold

brushes) exploded any conviction

her mind might settle on.

* * * * *

Grace Marie Grafton’s most recent book, Jester, was published by Hip Pocket Press. Six collections of her poetry have been published.  Her poems won first prize in the Soul Making contest (PEN women, San Francisco), in the annual Bellingham Review contest, and The National Women's Book Association, Honorable Mention from Anderbo and Sycamore Review, and have twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  Ms. Grafton has taught for decades with CA Poets in the Schools, and has been awarded twelve CA Arts Council grants for her teaching programs. Recent poems appear in Sin Fronteras, The Cortland Review, Canary, CA Quarterly, Askew, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Basalt and Mezzo Cammin.