In law had been dead for some time now. Before the prepubescent eyes,
silver strands descended into the matted burrow gone with a flicker of a lid. I dined
watermelons over her, spitting seeds into a sprout, and slept
on her cigarette holder—smoke thinning like the great uncles I never had.
My mother’s mother is laboring under the sepia portraits of her in-laws while her mother

in law pays an unannounced visit in my sleep, reduced into a viscous
lump of molten sugar that swallowed me whole. Tossed and turned inside the carcass
I wept viciously for its warmth until the needles from her Danish cookie tin
sewed us with glutinous floss. In mourning, I find myself on a wet pillow suffocated

by the conflation of alien affection. The only being remembered is my mother’s mother’s
lukewarm golden bill ironed with tears. Her wet nonexistent fingerprints run through
my scalp muttering, how would I let anyone take you. The inheritance of assorted
fruit candies is gummily green before my adult vision—impenetrable like the law’s cold

face. My mother’s mother has begun to vegetate and how I would
let this world make use of her is unknown. Composted among those black
seeds, I plant the needles around the veins. The world is certain,
only death hasn’t prepared me yet.