Today, under florescent lights,

I have my grandmother’s eyelid.

Bumpy, flaky, itchy

like a sunburn starting to heal.

At the office,

opinions are offered,

various potions tried and applied.

Solutions to securing suppleness.

What is sapping us?

I thought life had made granma’s eyelids

wrinkled, discolored sags.

Daughter of the rural poor.

Employee of the cannery.

Wife of the junior-high dropout,

who always resented the fact.

Mother of children who grew

to move out and up,

of an eldest whose own daughters favored

the other grandma.

Florence, never Flo,

obese and ordinary.

Loved through an act of will,

until death made it moot.

Now, in the reflection

of the upper eyelid just

below the right eyebrow

I see the resemblance.