Grace Paley (December 11, 1922 – August 22, 2007) was an American short story writer, poet, teacher, and political activist.
HAND-ME-DOWNS
Grace Paley
My love rests on the couch
in the sweater and bones of old age
I have stopped reading to look at him I take
his hand I am shawled in my own somewhat
wrinkled still serviceable skin
No one knows what to do with these
hand-me-downs love them I suppose
weren’t they born in and out of
dignity by our mothers and
fathers even our children in
the grip of merciless genes will
wear these garments
may their old lovers greet and
touch them then in the bare light
of that last beauty
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HERE
Grace Paley
Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face
how did this happen
well that’s who I wanted to be
at last a woman
in the old style sitting
stout thighs apart under
a big skirt grandchild sliding
on off my lap a pleasant
summer perspiration
that’s my old man across the yard
he’s talking to the meter reader
he’s telling him the world’s sad story
how electricity is oil or uranium
and so forth I tell my grandson
run over to your grandpa ask him
to sit beside me for a minute I
am suddenly exhausted by my desire
to kiss his sweet explaining lips.
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ONE DAY I DECIDED
Grace Paley
One day I decided to not grow any older
lots of luck I said to myself
(my joking self) then I looked up at the sky
which is wide its blueness its whiteness
low on my left the steamy sun rose moved
I placed my hand against it my whole hand
which is broad from pinky to thumb no my
two hands I bared my teeth to it my teeth
are strong secure on their gold postsI breathed
deeply I held my breath I stood on my toes ah
then I was taller still the clouds sailed
through me around me it’s true I’m just
like them summertime water that the sun
sips and spits into this guzzling earth