Gray, or My Grandmother Who Survived a Stroke

My head in her lap
She used to comb my hair
Her hair is gray
Not white
Not brass
Which turns her wrists green
Even now
The world is gray
A loss of feeling
No healing
Gray matter is gone
Who is she now?
Black is for mourning
But I am not mourning yet
Almost, though
Partial mourning
A warning?
A warming?
But love for someone new

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