You get to know your Grandma

beached in
pepto tile. avocado
accents.
acoustically explosive: the
call of Mahalia Mendoza.
Sub-valve deluge going on 24
hours and 90 minutes.
Post-pink chicken
salad from that rinky-dink
IGA on MLK.
Mahalia Mendoza
prefers the complexity of venison.
Hey! she says from
within, on my
minty mouthwash way
to pluck ticks &
dip my
dog, Flash, in tomato juice,
as she got skunked by a skunk.
are you out there?
Let me tell you what I did.
uncanny
how natural it is to stop for a minute.
the door
is just a veil.
Fritz the Nite Owl showed the
one
where Werewolf
pops the legs and arms
off Vlad’s last barbie,
quadruple amputee,
covered in mustard
for the dog to lick.
Hey!
she tells me,
sit down where you going so fast
everybody shits.
You remember the pig.
after we dressed him.
I saved that piece
you never did keep
started to smell after Smokey got aholt of it.
Fingers of Mahalia’s Rose Milk
guts,
radiating from the crack between the floor and the door.
her life is shaved ice.
her summers are stained hands.
she coughed up rocks for
the raspa palace
stands,
half finished,
Tyvek flapping like long underwear.
nothing
but ice
and the cold blades that shave it.