Grandmother

Warm apple steam
cascades in cinnamon curls
down the hall
to my child nose.

My grandmother's shadow
dances in the sunlight
to the clatter of plates,
bone-handled cutlery kissing formica table-tops.

The cooked apples,
wet and hot and sweet to the bite
fresh as the memory of Sunday sun rays,
sharp to cut through falling dust.

Now my skin is like soft bark,
my red cloak lost among gingerbread
as I search for a trail
marked by the ghost of cooked apples,
stalked by the wolf that took her.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.