My grandmother
wears her hips
clean
like cantaloupes
her breasts droop:
swelling, full-buttomed eggplants.
Her thighs are large, liquid and
smooth. But her fingers are crooked and her knees
breaking.
She leans forward to
ease my grandfather out of his seat,
grapefruit-gut and all.
He distributes
silky, slippery burps
that smell of dinner's stringy
roast beef. Sometimes, my grandmother
embraces a frown. She scoots wrinkles into her forehead
and her eyebrows meet halfway.
A moment.

Then that smile returns.
Sour cheeries.