My grandma climbed walls welted with thorns
Without seeing or reaching the ceiling
And fumbled her way up each sharp step
Into the darkness above.
She heard voices calling out her name
Through the tall planes of plaster and wood,
But when she opened her mouth to answer,
Thorns pricked her tongue and fog spilled out
That filled her lungs and clouded her ascent.
I watched her limp body slow with each pull,
Thorns plunged deeper into her slumping head,
And I prayed she would fall.