Grandma At Markleeville
by Jennifer Lagier



Our two fishermen
leave us tending the fire
while they patiently angle.

We are strangers
despite the living bridge
of her son, a man I call father.

At our campsite, we test
the waters, casting bright
spinners of family stories.

Invisible under Sierra stars,
she lights that forbidden cigarette,
conjures red dirt, Tennessee forests.

Like agile trout, history
bumps and teases,
misses the mind's hook.

Today, I only vaguely remember.
Grandma's voice shimmers,
disappears beneath tumbling water.






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