Mermaids and angels were
creatures no one believed
in past the age of nine.
Being eight, I knew
anything was possible.
My grandmother’s scaly skin
and my mother’s winged back
sure signs, living proof
of monsters in my blood.
Fingers veined purplish blue,
yellow fright lightening
hair, too frizzed and frayed,
grandma was a shocking sight;
weathered from being out of
water far too long, baking
in the prairie-dust heat
on a farm that was desert.
She never smiled in sunshine.
When the rains finally came
she glowed, iridescent pink
silver to pearl-blue.
Drank water through her pores,
drenching clean through to bone.
Thirst finally quenched
in just two inches of water.
My mother was afraid
of wetness, couldn’t put
her face in rain or showers;
her back protected her,
shoulder blades deflecting.
She preferred the lightness
of air, winter’s cold snap
of wind playing maypole
with her mass of dark curls,
snowflake-kisses, fleeting
on nose, eyelash and tongue.
Making her snow angels
in a blanket of white—
the imprints of wings clear—
her flushed cheeks pinched rosy
by the fingers of God,
she would rise up in white
arms outstretched to the sky
her creation resting;
I believed her holy
standing still, in the proof.
