For my Grandparents

I only remember you from photos
and yellowed portraits that Mom grouped
on our wall. By the time I was six
you'd been betrayed by cancer's Judas kiss,
the same one that must have soured
Grandma's mouth to a tartness as sharp
as the lemons she used to clean her sink.
After, hair pinned tight, black shoes, funeral-
prim dresses, resolute spine: the snapshot
I love best, though, is the one with your girl
balanced behind you on your motorcycle,
not the proper bride or widow, but the one
who's ready to joyride over the Spokane prairie.

April 2006