Grandmother

Where are you?

I dreamed of another’s face

streamed silk white hair

someone else’s ancestor

in place of mine.

 

Where is your story?

I cannot locate you

in the rubble recordings

vanished or taken

by time and careless wind.

 

My face is singular here

an orphan among features

drawn by one hand.

 

While I long for a view

of the profile woven

between deep in gritty

stone silent walls.

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