Angie Macri Everything Will Be Splendid: The Grandmother Will Not Drink Habitually

and they will walk through the Jewel Box, leftover
from a depression, glass that resists the fracture of hail. Out
into canna lilies, carmine, flames, like the ones she once set
out in her garden, her words won’t cross and she will
remember her garden and what is clear will be water,
as the glass of the box in its green frame. This third time

will be a charm. She will sleep with the shell of the moon
above her, not away the best part of the day. She will
wear old rhinestones, necklace and matching brooch
loud as cannas, the rhizome set in full sunlight as a wish,
and she will smile into a story as a child into a jewel box,
a reflecting pool echoing her face. She won’t break.


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