by Sam New

Grandma Vera, your glass

bluebird rests in my palm.

You told me it stood for hope.

As a child, my feet sank

in the shallow mud

of your pond. Catfish nipped

at my sister’s toes.

From the window, you

saw my cousins push me underwater.

It was bruises, Band-Aids, and sunburns.

Steam rose from a pot into your pores.

But sometimes we’d sit on the swing,

toes blurred over green, gravel, and sky.

At the cabin, I drove Hot Wheels

up the bark of one-hundred-year-old

oaks, raced the ants—childhood

was racing. Who knew we never rest?

You stared out beyond the pond

and I knew you were lonely.

At night, you sang a lullaby

as ocean waves crashed on

the cassette, thousands of miles

from Mt. Vernon.

After dancing

Bluebird in Sleeping Beauty,

I came down off stage through

a veil of applause. You passed

me a note with roses. You imagined

I’d make it to New York City.

I never made it that far, but kept

your hand in ink. I can hear

you read each word from a chamber

of echoes. I’m waiting

in the wings.

I never wanted to say goodbye.

Now, what's left of your body

sinking with earth? Let’s go

back—You never met the silly boy

I thought I’d marry. I gave him your ring—

the last diamond of you, gleaming blue

in some light.

Sam New holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Old Dominion University. A Best of the Net nominee, her poems and essays appear in South Dakota Review, Portland Review, Crab Orchard Review, Sierra Nevada Review, Harpur Palate, Watershed Review, Birdcoat Quarterly, and elsewhere.