Maegan Gonzales
—
When my grandmother died of gangrene, I wanted to call
I imagined your lonely hands instead
whisking matcha in the ceramic bowl I made you
copper and yellow-gold splattered glaze
my fingerprints smeared into every ridge of its mouth
I imagined green bubbles frothing below the brim
my cheek pressed hard to the cold kitchen floor tiles
one hurting summer you flew home just to hold me
under your old park’s pecan trees then fry me an egg
summers before, you tore your Achilles’ heel
danced on one foot clutching your crutches
another, we wandered a tea garden with ponds
glittering koi, then there was Greenwood cemetery
weathered headstones, people watching
us reading separate books on that tiny red blanket
November is coming again, and I can’t call you for anything
but I used to withhold, too, not telling you about my heavy ache
and the colors I tried to name the last winter I saw you
you stared at the painting of a blue man I’d just finished
faceless, suspended in sky color and drenched
in kaleidoscope rain How did you know? That’s me
you’d said, but I didn’t meet your gaze
now, I think of my grandmother and you and me
keen beneath the dark, dying slow in the old ways
Maegan Gonzales is an interdisciplinary southern artist, writer, and educator. Her recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in SWWIM Every Day, Sprung Formal, Sundog Lit, and others. She lives in Lake Charles, Louisiana where she teaches composition and literature at McNeese State University. Find out more at maegangonzales.com
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