Grandma, why did you powder your face, where are you in such a hurry to get to, standing with the door open to all this wind and not even realizing how crude that rouge looks on you, fixing your makeup must be easier than tending those flowers in the photograph, and right across our apartment’s flower bed is a market that buzzes like a beehive, why has it been days since you last visited the market, the red lines you drew in the photo album haven’t even faded but here you are grinning as if you’re too weak to even lift a crayon, and why are you wiping down that empty fridge, in that dream the other night I stopped the taxi you were riding off in with Grandpa and you said I did the right thing, so why did you visit my dream again last night, why did you forego your night sleep to put on all this makeup, can’t you see how my earlobes bruise blue whenever the phone bell thunders, how I clench my windows shut in case you’d come and demand I bring out the shoes hidden on my balcony, these are endless faces of endless dawns where you powder your face and I powder your remains, so what’s the rush, I’m tired of playacting Mom who used to fall asleep like lilies, so when your tearblossoms in the photograph wither and drift their way to me in the wind I’ll be ready to offer up your shoes that have mellowed into perfect ripeness, let the wind be the only brush to sweep gently across the blank sky and let the idle wind be the first to tap on my door, so please pass by my home without knocking tonight, and I’m begging you to fix that rouge that looks so crude on your lips, it’s not like you don’t have the time to fix your makeup,