un pedacito de souvenir

When my grandmother died, my aunt

lifted her camera at the small funeral,

toggled the zoom button and started taking

pictures of the blue-veined hands,

fingers draped along the blue

polyester dress, clasped across a plump

body in a mahogany casket.

When someone asked her why

she was doing it, she mentioned

the macramé, the doll parts, the needlepoint,

all the things her mother used to do

with those hands.

Someone sitting beside me

wanted to stop her then, beg her

to sit down, to leave the body be.

From “Souvenirs,” by Jenny Johnson