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,
dinner-table sovereign.
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.
--me
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