Clarity

I held my grandmother's hand
and my brother's.

Clarity was
hostage to bones, spindly, twiggy;
clarity stays strong, but for bones
beholden to fragility, like eggshells, or
luminous
as the powdered glass of shattered flourescent lights
never again to flouresce, but
for clarity, the camera's peripheral unkindness,
brittle at the edges, like a perfect
frozen lake, like an old vanilla frosted cake,
angelfood, tasteless, light;

Hands squeezed at the edges to
complete the ring, never breaking the ring
despite flighty urges
to pinch nose bridges, fix glasses,
wipe away the fog, wipe
sweat-sullied temples, uncrease cheeks,
for hands to be
the warm erasers of clarity,
thumb heels
rubbing out the watercolors, but no,
the permanent semi-fade remains a ghost
behind rainy panes, melting in its
pristine clarity; clarity

Should, like people, slowly die; it's hidden
expiration date counting down
to darkness, or
infinite white, no negatives remaining
to seer across
our paper sheets, but
clarity's burning image becomes
the background;
the stark throat cords
strain a tremulous gulp before
petrifying in thought, our
Lady Clara, our
serene statue of delicate repose,
unfractured as she sinks
beneath silicate layers;

Clarity dreams for me,
dreams my dreams, and sings to me
but not to sleep, no,
she just sings to be.