Getting Stoned with my Grandmother

Katherine Washburn

Brown hands
Tissue paper thin, twisting around
Joints wrapped green with
Tension twirled and sealed.

Two deep inhales, no cough.
“You’re insane Grahmcracker, Jesus.”
Sideways- dentured grin and whisps
Creeping out like white ghosts

Her heavy lidded head tilts
Cloudy cataracts staring at milky skies.
She talks of Indian summers
And my body seeps into the pavement.

We tentatively turn the door handle
Roughed up driveway feet
Padding back into our beds
Laughing at the pattern of the kitchen tile.

In the morning
She offers me tea:
Mouth drawn up like curtains,
Tea swirling like smoke.