Grandgirl, you are in my bed now, and in all of it.
You are horizontal and your soccer feet are planted
like oaks on the far side. Your head wants me,
wants to root itself like our over-sized pet pig
whose snout found its way in and out of all
hitherto assumed confines. Unable to sleep
because over-accustomed, I know, to sleeping alone,
I get up and half-circle my larger than king-size bed,
only to discover your immovable legs. So I learn
that seven is old enough to be stretched across all
my space and erase me from the chronic familiar.
Next day, over our strawberry smoothies at the Mall,
you watch me withdraw into reverie. Grandma,
you ask, what are you thinking? Bringing me back
to you. I tell you about our bodies in bed. This night
when it is dark and we’ve finished our chocolate and game,
you will climb in beside me again and read aloud
while I become child and drift to the edge of dreams.
You will turn out the light, then cross the distance
between us and place yourself gently under my arm.
We will sleep. Will you, grandchild, till death do us
hardly part, remind me how our bodies need each other’s?