Billie Dee

Her Castle

Tea stains, cat hair, dusty Persian carpets; all the drapery
is molting. The rasp of her breathing fills the whole house.
I hold a hankie over my nose to filter the Vick’s-flavored air.

Grandmother paces; propped at each arm by her sons, she
counts as she walks. Each step, a misery. The mantle clock
grinds out three a.m. as I wonder how long our vigil will last,
ask myself why I’m here after all these years.

In-laws I’ve never met sit on carved walnut chairs and eye
me askance. I finger the lip of an old Chinese vase, toe
the hallway runner that wants to unravel.

my back aches
as I move near the heat vent,
lie flat on the floor
inhaling my own fatigue
I haven’t bathed for days

The twin aunts in the parlor fold and unfold their hands,
exchanging dry whispers. Their postures reveal their identical
thoughts: maybe tonight, surely tomorrow. . .

It’s my turn to walk at her side. I study my grandmother’s
powdered face, coiffed hair, and reflect on her determination
to die on her feet—dressed for the theater, attended by all
the kin she commands.

a champaign
Pekingese on the divan
when I try
to pet her, she wags her tail
                    then bites my hand

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About the Author

Billie Dee is the former U.S. National Library Service Poet Laureate. She earned her doctorate at UCI, has won numerous poetry contests, publishes online and off. She lives in the Chihuahuan Desert with her family and a betta fish named Ramon.

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