black hair
I used to put it in braids
down her back

Indian grandmother
we walked
together
past
burial mounds

and she bought me
- m u l t i c o l o r e d -
beads

waves her hand
magically revealing
other cultures
thought
times & places

I can't hold my tears when she cries
and that
she does often
and does not hide the beauty
she easily finds
in femaleness

the best cook
come on,
chili rellenos
con queso
jalepenos
enchiladas
hold the olives
via
my mestizo grandmother

and every moment spent with her
brings me closer to
womanhood
completeness
understanding
harmony

brownalmostblack eyes
tanned skin
no hair on her legs
it's natural

she's natural
like mother earth

we don't share blood
we share something even bigger...
. . . s p i r i t . . .

and catch dreams together

03/14/2003

Author's Note: It never mattered that she's not actually my grandmother... she's my stepgrandmother... but I never noticed. There's no way to know her without being influenced by her. I remember when she and my grandfather moved in with us and she promised to remove my dependence on ketchup. It was her goal to expose me to other cultures and ways of thinking. She did an amazing job. We went to Greek festivals and she, being the most wonderful cook, made us huge meals from around the world. Um, my favorite was Mexican... that's featured in the poem. But she means so much to me. I wouldn't be as open as I am without her. I'd still be putting ketchup on everything. And I'd know half as much as I do about acceptance of people that aren't the same as I am. I don't think I can thank her enough.

Posted on 03/15/2003
Copyright © 2024 Emily G Myers