For Grandmother

images of a city girl,
living in Brooklyn before Brooklyn was a hipster zone,
donning her curls and a smile.

memories, and stories, so many stories.
a crowded sewing room; new dresses for holidays.
manicotti and homemade sauce;
italian cookies: meatball cookies, lemon bars, perfect napoleans.
A house full of knick-knacks and memories.

r.i.p. grandma

From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge,

on this fine morning, please come flying.

In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals, please come flying,

to the rapid rolling of thousands of small blue drums

descending out of the mackerel sky

over the glittering grandstand of harbor-water,

please come flying.

Whistles, pennants and smoke are blowing.

The ships are signaling cordially with multitudes of flags

rising and falling like birds all over the harbor.

Enter: two rivers, gracefully bearing

countless little pellucid jellies

in cut-glass epergnes dragging with silver chains.

The flight is safe; the weather is all arranged.

The waves are running in verses this fine morning.

Please come flying.

Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe

trailing a sapphire highlight,

with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots,

with heaven knows how many angels all riding

on the broad black brim of your hat,

please come flying.

We can sit down and weep; we can go shopping,

or play at a game of constantly being wrong

with a priceless set of vocabularies,

or we can bravely deplore, but please

please come flying.

Come like a light in the white mackerel sky,

come like a daytime comet

with a long unnebulous train of words,

from Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,

please come flying.

-Elizabeth Bishop