Grandmother, you are as pale
as Christ’s hands on the wall above you.
When you close your eyes you are all
white—hair, skin, gown. I blink
to find you again in the bed.

I remember once you told me
you weighed a hundred and twenty-three,
the day you married Grandfather.
You had handsome legs. He watched you
working at the sink.

The soft ring is loose in your hand.
I hated coming here.
I know you can’t understand me.
I’ll try again,
like the young nurse with the needle.