Samantha Settimio, a Pennsylvania native, is a graduate of Indiana University of Pennsylvania and a soon-to-be master’s graduate of East Carolina University in creative writing. She enjoys teaching composition and looks forward to her upcoming move to Virginia.
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On the Death of My Grandmother by Rare and Aggressive Ovarian Cancer
She grins up at me,
scent of shit
pinning us to her bedside,
my sisters, mother, and I.
She gums at us,
Chicka dee dee dee
Mother turns to me.
This is the way it goes.
It eats us,
brain and all.
Regards
Her mouth gapes wide
enough for nesting
birds, while drool winds down
her cheeks. Hair side-swept
hours ago remains wrestled
back and away,
the parchment-like bed sheets
tucked around and up her neck.
Outside, the steam of the city
landscapes another May morning;
I tug at the hem of my blouse.
When she wakes, I feel I must say it,
as dying or maybe dying
is always the time.
Yet in this case of I Forgive You,
she answers in one big squawking
Fuck You, the drool and the sheets
and the birds somehow
never having done
any good at all.