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.