Still Life

My grandmother's hands lie
dark in her lap; shadows
crease and unbend her fingers,
worn and curved as dry clay,
her skirt an empty bowl
across her knees and thighs.
I could put an orange there
or an apple,
perhaps an old rattle,
a fistful of dried seeds
or bottle of milk long since gone sour.
She has become a perfect study
in rounded forms frozen in space,
wrapped in the frost that forms
on her breath.

The light fades in and out
of the curtains, drapes
the cool body like a shroud;
only the rag rug under her feet
remains soft; only the dust
moves freely. At last
she will rise from these as well.
You can tell from the slight
downward glance, she already
imagines herself dark under quilts,
her body curled around itself
in sleep.

ãElizabeth Terry
1990