my grandmother's kitchen

Never have I seen this place without
The old television propped
On the wooden table, the reception like
Cashmere and the sound deep
Underwater – and there is coffee
On the counter but it doesn't smell
Quite like coffee.

The curtains are fraying from
Moths, I assume, and there are droplets
Of dried red wine on the linoleum
Floor and I don't think that
She can see them anymore.
There are cups of pudding set out
For us and I think these forks
Are the understudies today.

I smile at myself from her
Refrigerator door, and my eyes are
Brighter than they are now, still
Sheltered from things that
One day they will see,
Such as my grandmother, shaking,
Fumbling with the back of her chair,
Saying, “Don't make me go.”