it's too cold for angels to fly

she looked out the window, and saw nothing but tall green grass.
the air was quiet, and again the birds were asleep.
the sun had gone down, in circle, like the golden ratio. it gave the sky a pink tomorrow.
louia b. louie b
grandma.
i wish i could fly on golden wings to hold your hands
feed you chocolate hand rolled from paris, cultivated in madagascar, flown
in my knapsack.
i wish i could sit at your side and stroke your hair. maybe even paint your nails red
i wish i could cook you a big pot of my new soup, that may mend your broken heart
it's a sweet potato shredded red cabbage lentil quinoa soup, with a dash of fresh dill x cilantro.
it'll rock your soul, grandma.
send you to heaven with a big old smile on yo face.

promise.

i began my moon cycle today. i rode my bike for two hours today. i got a job today. got paid for one. and i got a hand me down juicer today grandma.

i miss your laugh.

i'd say.

grandma.

i'd say.

you would of have liked the quai d'orsay.

you would of have liked my friend debbie deb.

you would of have liked my life today.

Louie B, fell to the floor, knees hands raised, praying over the sound of the car engine that just erupted.
the house was too hot, the scent of cologne was still lingering, minutes gone by, her throat dry, but numb with custard from lemon tarts they shared with coffee flavored eyes.
she came out of her room, saw her father and gave him the letter.

the letter came from a place call Lost Angels.

what do lost angels sound like when they realize the light is no longer there.

later babies who later became my mother and aunt, picked sweet potates from the farm great granddaddy used to keep.
sweet potatoes that needed nothing but love and served hot buttered and fresh from the oven, served on a warm plate.
served with
my grandma, louisana, my grandma, sweet louie b.
sweet louie b.

her beau made tomorrow look like today, ran so fast through them fields that the rabbit lost track of the flowers that fell from her eyelids as he passed by barefoot, tie undone, and hair tattered. a white boy ain't supposed to be on that side of town.
naw he wasn't white, he was red, with creek indian and irish blood, but that history didn't come through yet.

*Note to reader:
a letter / poem to grandma
written summer 2012
read to her over the phone from:
paris to oakland
she now lives in a home / can't move her legs / can't remember me
maybe words and skin make it better
art: marcus mcallister