Finally answering
death’s good-night
your hair in white ringlets
like snow
on a true-daughter’s pillow.
No more peeling potatoes
in a kitchen of fears
custody-feuds
hidings and slop-pails.
No more great-grandchildren
to bounce on
Baba’s knee.
Always the forgotten member
forlorn in a corner or
watching the picture-box
wondering at the English words
amazed by Burbank colors.
Baba
a faded wedding-picture
yellowing the wall
expression of commitment
(I am his)
came to Canada
when she was pretty
had a figure.
Then
ten too many children
a homestead of hardships
her mouth twisted
unnaturally cruel by Time
spat phlegm
into a Kleenex.
Baba
dead at 87.