The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by E.C. Belli


A ma Grand-Mère

Long blades extending,
sessile leaves cry a stem
as cold rain pools.

They stare, from a grey
stone afar, while two young ropes
sink your stiff oak chest

and un petit buis—quiet
shrub—sits lethargically
on your André’s grave.


She smelt of old
age. She smelt
of clothes
tightly packed
and stored
in the winter-
clothes trunk.
For as long
as I knew her,
she smelt
that way.
I never thought
that I would
pack winter
clothes tightly
in the winter-
clothes trunk,
in the middle
of winter,
just to smell
her again.

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