Chocolate Covered Cherries

For my grandma. A pic of her with her mom when she was a youngun.

​​​​I buy the cheap kind, Queen Anne, a thin 
coating of chocolate housing gooey, white 
centers. Your pantry always stocked 
with at least two boxes, cardboard 
smelling of cigarettes. 

Once you slapped my hand for watching 
a sex education show, the TV framed by 
china shoes without feet or mates. You 
loved the child in me, long blond hair, 
smiling-open face. But when I was older 
I became you, raven-haired, solemn-eyed, 
all Bettie Page bangs and black fishnet stockings.
Though we smoked and conspired 
together, your twigs of cigars made me cough. 
"Grow your hair long and golden again," 
you'd scold, and somewhere, softly, 
I hated you for it. 

Now my brow creases as yours did, sisters 
in melancholia, the ashtray overflowing 
with butts, those gray snowflakes like 
dancing motes. I uncover my treasure, peel 
back the scrim of cellophane from two 
flimsy plastic crates. When that first gush 
of white-oozing sweetness melts over 
my tongue, a lone tear slides down 
like the Crying Indian on TV, the one 
with the haunting face, who came between 
M.A.S.H. and The Love Boat, 
mourning all that waste.