in the nightlight with unearthly sheen,
the folds of her netted silk dress gleamed.
we confessed to each other in a pale whispering,
she looks Spooky
our eyes pooled widely, our mouths a thin seam
too scared to call Grandmother on the scene
of a new distress thought out:
if she throws her bouquet
of tiny paper flowers
whatever you do,
don't catch it.
mary angela douglas 14 january 2017