GRANDMA’S CURLS

In the mirror, morphing into focus, are the curls,
Like those Slinky toys that roll down the stairs,
Gyrating to their own springy rhythm.
Your gray curls, Grandma, twining and rebellious,
Branches of a plant sprouting out of control.
I match my eyes to yours, fit my curls to yours.
Before the mirror thrusts us back in time
To find you shoving that kerchief over them,
As you hurry through the streets of Vienna
Clutching your bag of groceries
Your curls, inky black then, peeping out
While you scurry home
Stepping over broken glass
Millions and millions of tiny shards
Huge chunks sharp edges
Pointing ominously from the gutter upward.
In one fierce night, all shattered –
The curls, in one night, gray.
Their rich black luster shed, like the skin of a snake,
Scattered forever out to the stars.
The mirror catches you again: same kerchief,
Tight-lipped children in tow, fleeing,
Through Belgium, Luxembourg, Paris, Casablanca;
The curls hardened and stiff, growing coarse,
Absorbing the dirt of busses and trains,
Abandoned buildings and roadside campouts.
Diving into a foxhole, your curls straining outward,
From beneath the kerchief, bedraggled and shredded now.
Finally, the glistening sun at journey’s end
Beckons,
For the streets of America are next
To feel the determined tread of your tiny feet
The weight of your clenched years,
Your heavy curls
Panting to be released, to burst forth, to send the kerchief flying.

Stay in my mirror, Grandma – don’t go!
Match your bouncing curls to mine,
They can spring free at last, dance in the wind,
If they still know how.