Priscilla is a poet, paralegal, student at Roger Williams University, and a freelance writer. She is a speed reading bibliophile, mainly on Sundays, and a small town, redheaded spy working on an historical novel set in 1892. Her poems have been published in Unlikely Stories Magazine, Episode IV, and CHURN Magazine (forthcoming); her short stories have appeared in Gobshite Quarterly and several other journals. Find out more on her blog, Facebook, and Twitter.
By Priscilla Galligan ©2015
In Loving memory of My Maternal Grandmother
Mrs. Carolyn Donovan, LPN
4/7/1898 – 5/9/1979
A familiar ache hung in spring’s wind
that foggy Monday, swirled in a memory
of her sweetness; Easter baking, hot crossed buns,
filled with piety and absolution.
Her favorite Saint hung near her Son covered,
In purple velvet, washing sins away
Near Mary, Mother of God, Mother of us all;
Baking, washing, scrubbing,
Until the ideas of ruin were reconstructed, into something other than,
Worship of his divinity.
As the idle mind was a workshop, she never tended
Like the garden, fenced away
From the crabgrass, crows paralleling, a lone familiar hawk,
Circling anxious dogs barking a vagrancy
Filled only, with melancholy and desire.
Here we go around her birthday, three days passed-
Resolved, leaning together in headpieces now
Violet adorned, with a black laced veil, we’ll respect the matriarch.
Blood is thicker than this anniversary
At 86 she headed home,
Britta, our neighboring Opera singer
sang a stunning Ave Maria, turning us all
Toward hope, some nostalgia, or bets on eternal life…
And the casket was locked, lowered and reigned
Under soil, littered with yellow roses
and the ache returned with another swirl
of desire and ruin
of another bark
of a vagrant dog
of another bite
of a currant laden cross bun
frosted in longing nearer to Easter Dinner,
without our Nana.