From Lnu and Indians We’re Called by Rita Joe
My Grandmother
A wrinkled face deep in thought
Developed a respect
My awareness found.
In every line of her face
Expression revealed
The character of life.
The stolen fortune broke
In every line
There is a doorway to the soul
That shows the viewer,
And sadness unfolds.
In every line
The load is loosened
To shock the world
And sadden.
In every line
There are roadways of life
Giving testimony
To some forgotten plight.
In every line
Her age spoke truthfully,
Of rusty chains of existence
Of yesterday’s fight.
How dear she looks
she is my granmother
A picture in an old album.
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