It’s summer in Sanger, California,

and there’s a volcano

between my mother’s lips

as she stuffs me

into tiny shoes and a cotton dress.

Ashes powder my pointy bits —

nose, elbows, training bra.
Instead of running in grapevines,

I sit in mahogany pews

at a Methodist church and stare

at the heavily blushed face

of my grandmother —

her gray head juts

out her coffin

like a matchstick from a box.
She used to force relish

into tuna — I said

I didn’t like it, she said

I didn’t know

how to brush my hair

and even if I did

it wouldn’t brush right.
I want to strike her face

against flint

and ash her body into a jar —

cover the condolences of strangers

with I never liked Nona

and she never liked me.

    Sarah Jones is our December Poet in Residence.