Nana hangs the gold-leaf frame in her kitchen.
Lifts me up, and hips me in to see it.
What strikes first is reeling, kissing, red—
then the bulging bagpipes and a flute.
Hats are helmets—black, brown, mostly white,
atop pale faces—gossips, lovers, watchers.
Elm trees rise and loom over tripping clogs.
Scarlet scarves and skirts wing, skip, and swirl.
Nana points—see there—to a moony child
about to be knocked over by a giant.
I gasp. Glop spills in curdles from a jug.
I feel a crone’s firm arm steady at my back.
I squint and lean in closer. Where’s the bride?
Nana’s fingers brush a lady in black.
She’s fat and smiling, waltzing with her father.
Curly hair springs out from her rose crown.
I fuss to hear the music—play it, play it.
But Nana presses hush, fingers to my lips.
Silence creeps like her bittersweet between us,
pricking at my belly, redding her wet eyes.
I squeal when suddenly she bursts into singing.
Cheek to Cheek—she says—an old wedding song.
Then she tips me upside down and spins me,
and I spring wings so she’ll never have to stop.
