hands, holding.

⌇ a poem to my grandmother 🕊️

when i touched Ma Ma’s hand today, it felt different. i felt the wrinkles on her palm; the slow thrum of her pulse. old, weathered hands. somehow, Death makes me want to write poetry. as though flowery language will help take some of the sting out of it. the sheer permanence of it— regret, rolling hot and sticky on my tongue. could i have done more? sho…