I only appreciate the gift
of her words,
my grandmother, the storyteller,
now that she is gone. She told me
of her years in Bergen-Belson
when she had no roof
and would fall asleep
to the heartbeat
of stars above her,
crafting her own cover
of words,
then given as an offering to me
and when she spoke
her eyes were fixed
bright. They did not lower
in shame, and she glowed
in the daylight.
When I relax on the shore
under the meteor shower,
I cry for all of us
because she didn’t
need to anymore.
I knit her words into a net
to catch fallen stars
and keep me warm.
She will wait like the heavens
suspended in the cover of clouds
but I have not finished falling.