And it’s summer

 I have a white eyelet bathrobe lined in baby blue,

which I wear on the lawn

after supper, and I dance for my grandmother

 who sits in the chaise lounge wearing dark

 glasses that are blonde tortoise with green lenses.

Her skin is dark: tanned from

years of regret.

I am knocking on her heart.

There is no music

I can’t see her eyes

Yet every night after supper, I dance for her.

Tonight we had lamb chops and mint jelly.

I watched her eating, barely a few bites.

My mother said, “ I always watched my diet.

If I got fat, they wouldn’t want me.”

“They” a faceless group of men

lurking  like wolves around my mother

whose doe eyes rounded and widened

On cue.

The chaise lounge is empty now

The shadows of the hopeful lie down there

In the evening,

waiting to be chosen.