What I remember of my grandmother
before disapproving looks, loud sighs,
murmurs of why can’t you just be, is this:
a warm spring afternoon, Mississippi,
the flowered dogwood trees spilling
their pinks, purples, and whites
on the driveway and across the yard,
and a new tea set, complete
with packets of raspberry, lavender
and rosehip, spread between us
on the porch steps, perfect and whole,
making me feel like something I knew I wasn’t.

What I remember is sipping the tea,
unwilling to admit that I thought
it tasted more like dirt than roses,
trying not to make a mess
of the moment, not to become
a thing to worry over, clean up, fix.
What I remember is wanting
my skinned knees and knobby elbows
to transform into a grown-up body
that knew how to hold a teacup,
pinky out, and not spill a drop,
and like the way it tasted.

Anna Sandy is a poet, MFA student, English instructor, and assistant editor for Five Points. She does all of this at Georgia State University, where she also occasionally naps at her desk.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Wanting

  1. Alle C. Hall says:

    This is a great piece. Thank you

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