Dream Ending In A Host Of Angels Zipping Me Into My Grandmother’s Dress

By Bradley Trumpfheller

Once & could-be-future girl, believe we’re not like you. Sure,
the pickup was tucked in dusk, shed all carefree w/ its sunburn
shimmer. Still nothing new to say about the creek, how reeds
get moony, or when we saw pelicans hold hands & gossip.
But y’all must wanna get this close to soft, so here goes: spool
heels, silver sleeves w/ pink accents, kind to stifle the trailer
static, same color Dot says Granny passed in. Past since good
& we did keep her pearls for you, kissed the hems holy, darned
the moth marks back to true. Goes: none of it imitation. Goes:
we are her barefoot bloodline, butter in the salt pan. Trust
you’re not from this sweat but still a goodness. You once most
only boy in the yard, laugh into your born polish. Step-joy,
uncousin: home is a name you bless in silk & cinch. Believe
we’re all alive here. Come hum this lace blood-warm. Glisten.

This Poem Features In: