I’m improving Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy” . . . sort of.
It’s extremely rough.
Grandma
Grandma and I love to play
Who cares more,
Or is it who cares less?
It’s a simple game really.
She gives me a sideways smirk that
Passes for a smile.
In turn I give her a hug
Worthy of an Oscar nomination.
Her lips skin my forehead,
Leaving her pomegranate lipstick
A permanent stain.
My cheek presses against hers
Her wrinkles melting into my dimple.
In her head I’m still and egg
Locked in an ovarian jail.
In my head her smile is real.
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