My dying grandmother can no longer feed herself,
her 96-year-old husband keeping her alive
one slow spoonful at a time.
And my grandfather is so matter-of-fact patient,
bent and focused through hour-long feeding sessions,
pious under God’s watchful eye.
Out of sync with my quiet brand of liberalism,
his voice—I hear it—sounding loud and often,
He used to on principle make me bristle.
I recently had a child.
In the days immediately after his birth—
slippery, taken up—I didn’t have much choice:
I ate some meals at the hand of my husband.
Until one day I could no longer bear it;
I covered my tracks with a laugh
and insisted on keeping myself.