All Grandmothers Whisper, Their Lips Move, They Brush Their Hair Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

All grandmothers whisper, their lips move, they brush their hair

they mutter incantations over dead husbands
long forgotten.
Ineffable sweetness hiding imaginary blowtorches,
tweezers, in my conversations

boldly gone penciling when I ever buried my face
into the timid breasts of shadows' light of moon's
rare reverence, it beckoned as though lost night stars find me
most lovely when in thoughts of death I find solace

if lucid in rain my flesh must be foolish or dry
I know my love, she is as flowers
- lush even in darkness

my flesh is the rainmaker
it embraces me so

I have gathered beneath rain's gossamer restlessness
secrets and terrors of deep deep ponds' loveliness


all grandmothers whisper, their lips move, they brush their hair...