Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Elisabeth, my father’s mother, reigns
in state as matronly in death’s repose
as any monarch lives—tiara hair
and pride, a crest upon the banner of
her stoic subtle grin. And irony
of majesty: I laugh instead of cry.
I’ve read it once that many couples swipe
a jab or two for how their partners wipe
their asses: wadded, wetted, folded.... I
imagine Betty’s flight, my memory
a hoot—she’d taught me young I’m not to shove
much paper in the bowl; with proper care,
three squares suffice. Now peacefully she goes
like origami toilet tissue cranes.



with love for EFN, 1923-2007