The Weakness

    That time my grandmother dragged me

    through the perfume aisles² at Saks，

    she held me up by my arm，

    hissing³， "Stand up，"

    through clenched⁴ teeth，

    her eyes bright as a dog's

    cornered in the light.

    She said it over and over，

    as if she were Jesus，and I were dead.

    She had been solid as a tree，

    a fur around her neck，

    a light-skinned matron whose car was parked，

    who walked on swirling⁵ marble

    and passed through brass⁶ openings——in 1945.

    There was not even a black elevator operator at Saks.

    The saleswoman had brought velvet⁷ leggings to lace me in，

    and cooed， as if in service of all grandmothers.

    My grandmother had smiled，but not hungrily，

    not like my mother who hated them， but wanted to please，

    and they had smiled back，

    as if they were wearing wooden collars.

    When my legs gave out，

    my grandmother ragged¹ me up and held me like God

    holds saints by the roots of the hair.

    I begged her to believe I couldn't help it.

    Stumbling， her face white with sweat，

    she pushed me through the crowd，

    rushing away from those eyes that saw through er clothes，

    under her  skin， all the way down to the transparent⁸ genes⁹ confessing.