by Mar Von Zellen


Think for a moment of your grandmother’s arthritic hands. They
don’t clutch at translucent things like they used to, or peel grapes for
picky babies, or smooth back the hair of an uninterested male, or cleave
the rain into dust before it hits your soft, soft eyes. They don’t point at
masochist mothers & mothers with cellphones for children or at the
dismantled dome of a breast radiating from the television as a kind of
tinker-toy; your grandmother’s are long & worn but still hers, still warmly
attached, still a comfort in the night as she lies next to hymnals & the
memories of unfulfilling sex, & if there are gods—gods of free motion,
gods who banish needless build-up—she’ll teach her grandchildren not
to smile at delivery men or touch that which isn’t sung about longingly
at funerals. Her hands are curled into spirals. They are only good for one
thing: for kneading the early morning bread in the wake of a disaster and
that, she knows, is enough.



Mar von Zellen is a Prague-based poet & writer whose work has been published in places like Big Bridge Press, Pretty Owl Poetry, Redheaded Stepchild, Temporary Infinity, and Open Field. She writes mainly metaphysical and historical poetry, gaining inspiration from Prague’s magical features (especially the time portals). Her two old cats inspire her to take more naps.