I
imagine her pacing the hall, at times pausing before
the
halo of an open door, one I cannot follow her through.
A
lifetime ago when she took my hand, and I followed her
into
the twilit yard, my hair still damp and fragrant with
Johnson’s
Baby Shampoo, my Wonder Woman nightgown
swishing
my ankles, how the cool earth cushioned my feet,
grass
slipping between my toes. A lifetime ago when she
pointed
to the pendant of lights winking across the lawn,
showed
me how to catch and cup fireflies in the cradle
of our
palms, coax them into a canning jar, fasten the cap.
How I
turned that glass jar over in my hands, marveled
at the
glimmering even a child knows to name Miracle,
How I
clutched this magic to my chest, begged to carry
them
to bed, a night light, my very own theater of stars.
But
there was my grandmother gently reminding me
to do
the right thing. To be kind. To return to the sky
what
was never mine to keep. My grandmother
placing
her hand over mine, lending me her strength
to
loosen the lid, my grandmother and I, side by side
on
that darkening lawn, our palms lifting to sky,
waving, waving goodbye.
Elizabeth Johnston Ambrose (she/her) is the author of two chapbooks, Wild Things (Main Street Rag, 2021) and Imago, Dei (winner, Rattle Chapbook Poetry Prize, 2022). Her poetry and prose appear in The Atlantic, McSweeney’s, Room, Descant, Women Studies Quarterly, and Clockhouse, among others. She is the recipient of Descant’s 2025 Betsy Colquitt Poetry Prize, among other awards. Elizabeth lives in Rochester, NY, where she coordinates the Creative Writing Program at Monroe Community College. Find Elizabeth at www.elizabethjohnstonambrose.com and on Bluesky @poetlady74
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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