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POEM: ginger ale

November 14, 2011

It’s my Grandma’s birthday today. She likes ginger ale, a lot. We always have a liter of it in our house. I wrote this poem for my her, but it’s not the first time I’ve honoured her on my blog: check out Grams reciting some poetry here too.

ginger ale

cork the bokkle

grandma coaxes over chicken bones

a twist in her face

marrow grinds between teeth

i tell her i don’t like ginger ale fizz,

my defense for leaving the bottle loose,

later: once mom finally sits down,

i scan ingredients

for the alleged real ginger

so boastful on the label.

the kitchen hums quiet

after i deem canada dry a liar.

sizzled pop froths stilly on ice cubes,

her small hand crawls across the table,

bottle cap and green plastic

look so weak against grandma’s grip.

she finds my face and hands me my drink.

see, it best fresh.

safe and sealed, she’s pleased

and done dinner

mother finds a new reason

to spin in the kitchen

a gulp full of fizz forever preserved.

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