CARA NONA (GRANDMOTHER WITH CHILD)

by Mary Magagna

on closer inspection
the reptilian folds and bulbous nose on my grandmother’s face
become filaments of a web, her eye the spider.

on closer inspection the folds become petals.
she blinks.
the flower closes, then opens.

her knobby fingers
run like twigs through my hair, rough bark catching in the strands.

“hold still,” she says.

now her eye looks like a lizard’s
and a thin membrane slides over her bulging orb.
is there anyone in the world more lovely than she?
her skin is fine grassland partitioned off by wrinkled arroyos.
her nostrils? twin caverns.
her chin could touch her nose
and hairs grow from it as sturdy as stands of white aspen.

from the corners of her mouth waterfalls trickle
and drop into limpid pools on her smock.
the wafting of her breath
brings news from coffee, cardamom, garlic, and onion.
I can’t get enough of her.
she knows it, sly coquette.
“if you take your nap,” she says, “I’ll let you touch my nose.”

I swoon with desire at the possibility. I obey.