While tea boiled in the kettle,
my grandmother's head circled
for the culprit who claimed her
whistle. No bedroom corner
was safe to hide. She always
found it no matter how much
distance we put between her
and us. Hands of the big clock
in the hall ticking away,
a squeak from her old sneakers,
we heard every closet door
she opened and closed, the swoosh
of her housecoat, her sweet voice
asking from the stairs if we
wanted a peppermint stick,
another bottle of Coke.
She tried to lure us with love
but we knew better, as we
waited for the wool blanket
we had tossed over ourselves
to be thrown in the air, that
screech of triumph searing our
ears—the trophy always snug
in her lips before the tea
bubbled and burned on the stove.

 
This poem first appeared in I-70 Review (Summer/Fall 2021).
From House Bird (Terrapin, 2022).
Used here with permission.