Susan Kelly-DeWitt poems
Summer Of The Grandmothers
- by Susan Kelly-DeWitt 28
They come back in their whiteshifts, their ruffled shawls of salt
white, the way the dead always return
when you need them the most—
when it's too hot to do anything
but picture the worst—the Bomb
finally fallen, the world burned-up,
the entire planet radioactive—
when you are too weak to do anything
but lie in a stupor and call them back
to drift at your side, in eyelet dresses
of old starlight, fresh-faced and cold.
Anonymous submission.