IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOk
Of Love and Smoke
A poem
Published in
Jul 13, 2024
In the plumes of old memories I can see —
My grandma smoking like distant fire
while singing to me in my swaddled gown
like some mythical creature drifting
in the swirling vacancy of an ancient lullaby.
As she swayed.
The cradle will rock, and down will come baby…*
and then comes the pause as the tip glows
and then the dabbing out in the ash-filled tray
she would flick bits of her precious life into.
And she makes her final exhale.
In the stratified smoke of those distant memories
of her gently rocking and gently singing
I recall the fits of sputum-laced coughing
that seemed to etch away at her very being.
And still, she had the strength to have loved me.
For my grandma
July 2024 dB
*From the Lullaby “Rock A Bye Baby”
