African Violets

by: Mary Alice Lassiter

Granka's hands brush quickly over leaves
that she has touched most mornings of her life.
From adolescence she has cared for these
 
small, fragile plants that answer to her sighs.
But when she goes to take a morning walk,
forgetting to instruct her otherwise,
 
old Sally wanders in and starts to talk,
she pours some water into blackened dirt,
she hums a tune that doesn't mean to mock
 
the silent room, the still, uneasy hurt
that grows within the comfort of these walls.
When Sally's hands reach down, dark and alert,
 
 they find their way to pots, but then must fall
 to dusting off a pale, silk tablecloth
 upon hearing some footsteps in the hall.
 
 And so that Granka knows, she gives a cough,
 their eyes meet for a second - empty, soft.