MY GRANDMOTHER'S BUST

The statue sat in the crook of
the stair; it was poorly lit by gas.
It had pointed ears and a smirk
that wrinkled its porcelain
nose—I was scared to climb
the steps so Gran kept a potty for
me below. I thought it the devil

but short-sighted Grandfather
called it the bust of an Ulster Scot:
No dancing. No games. No idle talk
in his house. It was only after my
grandparents died and the statue
came to us that I found it
was Dionysus—horns, hooves

and flute. Picture Grandmother
pausing on that dusky stair
to touch the lips, to trace
the laugh, the life force thick
in her toes, her small feet
skipping slyly up the splintery
steps, whispering past the study

where Grandfather scores in
scarlet the sins of his congregation.
Even as she rises on ten plump
toes the blood leaps in her
breast like a cat on the prowl,
her nipples swell, her legs kick out
and Grandmother ho-owls…

by Nancy Means Wright                   

Published in Comstock Review

© Copyright 2001- 2007, Nancy Means Wright. All rights reserved.

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