Piles of things congregate
On stools, on chairs, on tables,
Except where she sits
There is a space
There where she knits
And shares her sugar-free ice cream
With the ruffled-up cat.
Her hands are the same as they’ve been
For the thirty years I’ve known her,
Yarn moving through them,
Her fingers like living shuttles
While her mouth curls in, up,
Opens as stories edge out,
Weft by weft,
Grandma is left
And she tells me as much as I want to know
Her fingers never slow.
And I imagine her mind sorting through
The millions of blankets, and booties,
Sweater-sleeves, shawls,
Socks, slippers, mittens, warmers too many to remember,
In her mind they pile and congregate,
On stools, on chairs, on tables
For children long since grown,
Friends, neighbors, grandchildren returning home
To ask her a million questions,
Tonight she pulls out those memories and unfolds them,
In heaps, they surround us except where she sits,
She moves from pile to pile as she knits
Pulling out the whys and whens by the sleeves,
Showing me collars she buried years ago,
Lace doilies that have gone yellow with time
She packs them back with affection,
Delicately she leaves them in that place in her mind,
And tells me
That this one in her hands,
It will be the most special.
You enter the room in catastrophic heels,
And I know it from the first time you swing that little clutch purse
That You are the One.  
Everyone stops.
The small revolver on the inside of your thigh shifts.  
He looks up, pauses, twists the corner of his mouth into a smirk,
As if to say, “Well isn’t this my lucky day?”
Long-legged, long-haired,
With Eyelashes that weep like willows
And a jaw that catches the moonlight like the bow of Artemis herself,
I would probably hate 007 if it weren’t for you;
With your quick wit, fast lips and perplexing duplicity.
You are too sassy, too smart, too sexy to be allowed.
Gun-toting, soft-stepping, with just the right amount of fur on his chest,
Who does he think he is?
The suffering, smoldering hero--
I want you to turn his eyes to goo
Like you always do, Bond Girl,
Because I could never love a man who didn’t love a woman like you, Bond Girl,
He wants you even though you’ll try to kill him someday
He’ll take you now and dispose of you later, and that’s okay
Because he’ll regret it forever.
He’ll remember you as  beautiful, smart, flexible.
How you understood his complex conscience,
His ascetic but precise needs.
He would have given it all up, and you both know it,
Maybe you even talked about it--
When you are dead, he’ll remember how he danced on the edge of your plunging neckline,
And almost fell head-first into a domestic family sitcom,
No, he’ll shake his head, the show must go on…
He’ll miss you. 
We all will.
But its your own fault, and we all know it.
You should have shot that bastard.
You should have aimed to kill.




Are important to note
when reviewing the relative worth of
securities, assets, tax-free, tax-deferred, tax-exempt, pre-taxed, penalty-taxed,
Taxing to remember the voodoo magic that  summons yields,
Important to note again that there are exceptions to
worth, to value, to bids and offers, important to note
that indexes don't perform always to the basis, to the very basis point
despite our many projections, despite our estimated and diversified portfolio,
our watchful eye and assumed interest rate,
our expected and assumed rate of growth--there is no
promise that in the end we will delve our palms in the deep black soil
And pull our Yield up by its stringy white roots—shaking the clumps of dirt free

To find in our hands that bright red house, the ripe green yard, or the flashy purple retirement we had calculated
when the morning dew still clung to the touch-me-nots,

When the sun was peaking over the hill.

It is important to note which way the winds are blowing
when calculating yield