Imprecise

My grandmother never believed in precision.
She had a vague face and beige
approximations for hands.

There was magic in the way
she’d paint her deep irises a vacant black
when the hard questions came.

Even her darkness became
a kind of light, her survival,
necessary alchemy.

She could smile right out of your grip
before you knew what happened,
never needed to differentiate
between propriety and blindness.

My grandmother didn’t believe
in anything other than beauty,
coiled what was left inside of her—
a strand of barbed wire.