cutting great neck

as if she was here—her ghost. grandma was
supposed to, and now it appears as if
she walks the neighborhood streets, as if
she had come: that black shadow, swallowed
by the fumbling silhouettes of tree-trunks,
heaving, toddling across the street from me,
might be her long-lost phantom, or maybe
our ancestor’s relative who fled on a distant
ship towards america. as i watch it approach
me, that old toddling body—a symptom, a relic
from a broken hip—i feel what those who’ve lost
someone and then were reminded of them
must feel, must undergo when a familiar feature
is exhibited: a pang through lungs; as if she
is here, a dead woman walking—though
she’s not dead, thank god, she’s not dead yet.