When nightmares drove me 
out of sleep 
she always let me in 
to snug up against 
her warm body 
her solid back a wall 
against all terrors 
  
She was my safety 
her arms the only soft place 
in a country 
full of scales and claws 
  
I thought I could always 
find my way 
past the open mouths 
of the doors along the dark hall 
to her room 
where I would always be 
welcome 
protected from whatever monster 
had my scent 
  
But she was no good 
past morning 
daylight burned off  
all her special power 
I learned too late 
it only worked 
on ghosts and shadows 
and would not keep me 
from the cold wolves 
that hunt us while we wake
                        

Grandma could make anything grow. 
She’d spit an orange seed into her hand 
then push it into a pot of dirt 
and soon she’d have an infant orange tree 
with fragrant leaves that would release 
their sweet oily scent when you rubbed them 
Between your fingers. 
She kept a corner by her best window 
crowded with plants. It was like 
a miniature jungle, a lush tangle 
of ferns and vines she tended 
faithfully, keeping them clean and watered. 
She used no other encouragements, 
and still her green things grew 
eagerly, rich and dark, a complicated 
variety of forms and orders. 
Sometimes those plants, poor orphaned things 
that someone else gave up on, 
that came from funeral arrangements, 
or the dish gardens sent to the sick, 
would bloom for her, 
dewy flowers like tiny exquisite 
lilies, with a scent that could perfume 
the whole room.