On the day Grandma Rose vanished,
a flash of pulsing lights and sirens
snatched her from the small flowery
wallpapered room across from mine.
In the ripe hysteria of death
they exiled me to Joycie’s house
where I watched her family chew.
I did not complain
I did not cry,
I did not tell them how disgusting they were.
Too small to know
the rules for grieving,
wide eyed and empty,
unable to catch my breath,
I huffed and puffed
through empty days,
longing
for the return
of automatic breathing.