My grandmother used to stand in our kitchen,
Smoothing her hand over a hip
Curved like a crescent moon,
Saying, "Sweets aren't a problem for me,
But don't make me give up my bread."
Then she'd butter a slice of sourdough
My father brought home from San Francisco
And eat it like a queen nibbling on crumpets.
I'm grateful she still visits me in a poem.
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