Grandma is broken
Pieces of her lay about
           An audio clip
Of her voice from one evening
I called to make dinner plans.

She is walking in front of me
           Down the narrow hall
Hunched over by her back
I followed her around the kitchen.
            “Why is she bent like that?”

A bell, worn brass, plaid handle
Lived on her bedside table
           I touched it
I asked her why she had it.
Her bedroom floor looked at me

The collage of her funeral
Feels like snow in my throat,
Pressure under my cheekbones
Cracks in my rib-cage
I leaned on her headstone.

These pieces of her belong to me.