Grandma’s nerves
are an aging fault line;
thirty years
her spinal column
a bungalow of bones
that rattle
whenever buses or trucks
drive by.
Squatting on a hill,
her brain, a Victorian Manor.
The wiring tangled up
like twisted barb-wire.
If you look in her eyes,
you can see lights
blinking on and off.
The switch never to be found.
Hidden somewhere
in the trembling walls
of her memory.