Poem for Nan

Expiation
for Frances Kiley

Drawn by habit,
like a mill horse circling,
my grandmother would bolt out the door,
in just her squat black shoes
and her slip, heading
for the eight o'clock Mass.

Dispatched by my mother, a grinning sister
would lead Nanny away
from God and back to us.
My brother and I had habits
that God couldn't satisfy.

But an old womans' savings, stuffed
in socks and shoes, secreted
in old coats or layered
in matresses would ease
the aching knees
stop the running nose, satisfy
the greedy god who demands
worship on a daily basis.

Dope sick junkie geologists, we were,
picking through her dresser drawers.
Down into the handkerchiefs where
dollars lay like ore deposits
between the succeeding fabrics,
from cotton to linen to the bright sheen
of sheer Belfast hankies.

Back we went through time,
ransacking the brittle yellow envelopes
from Costigan, Maine 1933
Halifax, Nova Scotia 1926
and a letter from a Mr. Phinas Cudihy
Portpatrick, Ireland 1909.

My Grandmother complained
of missing money,
and ghosts.
She began howling
through the house
That the Black and Tans
were in the street and
the wolf was at the door.

My parents parceled her off
to a nursing home.
At my lone visit she confided
that the staff was out to kill her,
and what nice teeth I had.