H.E. Wright Museum Piece My grandmother had a knack For destroying What is valuable. If you had an authentic object Of sweeping worth, She spray-painted it Gold or silver, Or glued it to a pine cone. It was the look that mattered. It was her austere gaze That made you—and all things— Cower And stand still, Proper. But she washed your hair every Sunday morning In her kitchen sink. And at church, you always walked the aisle To sit with her after the sacrament. She made doll figures Out of her white, embroidered handkerchief. Always, you fell asleep—head in her lap. She wore flower prints or paisley. She combed your honey hair with her gardening fingers, And called you Cissy. You knew you were loved. And you knew that it wouldn’t last. But you slept well In that wooden pew— A broken blue hymn book for a pillow, And your white knee socks sagging Around your red-sand, dirty ankles.