BIRD WOMAN
by Ky McKenna
She could be an owl, my grandmother—
half-deaf, bleary-eyed, cooing hoo, hoo,
who sang us songs at night, who ran
the dryer for us with warm towels
right out of the shower, who floats now
in the bathtub as my mother sponges between
my grandmother’s shoulderblades, her skin
the translucent, feverish blue of membranes between wings.
My mother thumbs my grandmother’s liver-spotted
hand and answers every question: Who? Who? Who?
Me—a woman who freezes each time my mother
forgets a name, who misplaces every key I own,
who clasps my grandmother’s hand and leads
her down the stairs, her neck tucked into
the feathery collar of her nightgown, the moon
lighting her curls, her hollow bird-bones,
her head cocked down at me, a stranger
who wears her face.