I remember her in mirrors
when light touches my cheekbones
at certain angles,

surprising
to find her French variations
in Irish features.

She, who always smelled of Dove soap,
is responsible.

She taught her daughter
to love language.

I played beneath this table
while they solved Sunday crosswords,
their voices sifting to my ears,
5 down–an infinity
of afternoons.

Did she ask my mother
to hand that love to me,
like jewelry and dishes promised my sister;
china saved for guests.

Her table supports my page.

I conjure her with ink;
small woman in the chair nearest the window,
her head to one side
like a curious bird,
listening (even my gestures
                      are borrowed).

Why am I surprised?

Fingertips know this wood
polished and welcoming
as skin.

Sense more basic than touch
travels my arm, tells me
this is my grandmother’s table

& these were her words
before they became
my own.