My grandfather's hands were like burnt silk,
Though it was thick,
As though the worms making it
Had been ill, old,

All of that skin held blood like scotch,
Red tasting, like Chinese huangjiu,
Flowing deep in his arteries,
Like his veins didn't exist
And only pushed blood away away away.

He was reduced to a box of dirt,
Not ashes, but dirt
With acacia leaves growing from marble stone.

Last year
(I can't remember when, summer or winter or fall,
Either way he was cocooned in wool),
My grandpa forgot how to use the television remote
And had to watch the BET network for three days.
I was the only one who laughed.

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