Three years past someone else's summer
of love, smoky sunlight squeezes
past metal blinds. I am dancing
to no music but dust motes that twirl.

At 12:30 sharp, my grandmother is making
deviled ham sandwiches on Roman Meal,
not my mother's dry Hollywood Dark.
Here the radio is silent. The TV is off.

Humming, Grandma spoons out piccalilli
relish and Hellman's Mayonnaise
into the small bowl of deviled ham.
As I twirl, she tells me stories

about my mother as a little girl
who went to dancing school
and was a butterfly at the spring recital.
I sit at our toy table and look out

the window at the lilac bush
that, in summer, hides rusted hulks
to imagine butterflies dancing,
becoming girls in this city.


This poem first appeared in Setu.
Used here with permission.