E.C. BELLI

The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by E.C. Belli

IN THE MEANTIME

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.

GRAND-MAMAN

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.

Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication