If you listen, you might hear her laughing 
up there, grandmother of the top drawer. 
Laughing about the way life slipped from her 
like a chicken noodle. In another time 
she was the bright-eyed floozy of the dining room, 
but her heart was too big, she gave it all away. 
Now she spends long hours in the crumb-lined corner, 
remembering her days with the delft blue plate— 
how they ran away together and caused 
such a stir, the cook jumped over the moon.

But he was fragile, the delft blue, fell to pieces 
at a family bash, leaving her alone. Oh, she’s 
had her flings since then—taken out to serve 
rice and beans or lift the green from an avocado. 
And one autumn she went to the garden 
to make holes for a hundred tulip bulbs.
But in recent years it’s the grandchildren— 
their small hands reaching for her on rainy afternoons.
She still gives all she has, her tarnished face
beneath the golden broth—a mirror to soften our world.