A Poem: Witness

My grandmother gathered
bread for sparrows.
At the end of the week, she scattered
dry crumbs in the yard.

Was she waiting for something unnamed to return?
A brother, a prisoner, a storm?
Some shy angel, freed from duty at the bar?

Or was this the road home—
word after word thrown out to the cold,
bones laid bare
for witness.

This article appears in August 2012.