Notes
After Becky Boling’s “Melt”
The quilt my grandmother made
was not for me, or summer.
I never held it in my arms,
nor hung it on a wall, like art.
Too thin to swoon cold,
but all her breath could give.
My grandmother’s eyes closed,
though Mother said she couldn’t
let her go.
Did Mother stretch into the quilt
on cool nights, searching for warmth?
In the note pinned to it,
my grandmother said that cold
had risen in her blood, an icy rainbow
pieced of scraps, she needed
drips of hot beauty.
These notes my tongue
can sing.
5 thoughts on "Notes"
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
I love the questions this poem raises – it is finely stitched!
love:
cold
had risen in her blood, an icy rainbow
pieced of scraps
The beginning of this poem draws the reader into a thoughtful jewel box
Too thin for physical warmth,
still the quilt can warm the heart.
Wow what a beautiful poem, Libby! You are a master.