To Grandmother, an Unsent Letter – Cortney Grubbs

Cortney Grubbs

I think it’s sort of a pill, not enough,
but just adequate
to get through one session of therapy.

This letter
is supposed to serve as confessional
redemption,

some unburdening of my subconscious.
You aren’t dead.
What should I see after this scraping off

of you?
You not cutting my hair while I slept,
and me,

silly and ten, waking on the floor, chased
around the kitchen
at three in the morning by the imagination?

Me, now
pinches over twenty, startled awake at night
and still stumbling

towards the you-that’s-not-there? You seem hard
as candy,
far away as Halloween during January.

Understand?
Why are you still eating my memory?
Please stop

sending cards
for Christmas, and every once in a while,
for birthdays.

You beg
for more than my pen can sketch on flat paper.
My postage—
I want it reimbursed. I almost want you gone.

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