Miswriting

In repose, her face is sad
but sunlight from the kitchen window warms it.
She writes on onionskin paper
with hands as wrinkled as orange peel.

"My dear granddaughter.
I hesitate to give you advice—"
crosses it out.
"Have you asked your mother—"
crosses it out.
"Viduity makes one no expert on marriage—"
crosses it out,

lines of black through words in black
when what she wants is red, red
debit ink to say:
blood of my blood, all choice is loss
all choice is gain.

--for Poefusion
Collection available! Knocking from Inside