My grandmother cherished her red leather Bible,
the perfect arc of Robin’s teeth marks
on the back cover,
Even more than Jesus’s words in red print.
Every single solitary night
Gram put out her last cigarette, unwound her bun,
got into bed and read
a chapter wrapped in red leather.
May be homage
I start every single solitary morning
legs crossed under me in my red leather
chair; I pray and chant and contemplate
the Saturday at Ikea I saw the chair
and felt Gram’s Bible in my hand,
I slipped off my shoes, settled in the chair
pulled my legs up under me.
