by Beth Suter

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grandma bookmarks
her bible with crow feathers
talks to the sun

born paperless on Chickasaw Creek
she checks “white” on every form
keeps her dark hair short

braids mine like a prayer
humming Amazing Grace

suspicious of funeral homes
she says just wrap me
in a blanket and dig a hole

pockets full of rocks, she treats
money like a rattlesnake, edible
as long as you cut off the head

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Beth Suter studied Environmental Science at U.C. Davis and has worked as a naturalist and teacher. She is also a Pushcart Prize nominee, with recent or forthcoming poems in Bellingham Review, Poetry South, Mudfish, and Poet Lore. She lives in California with her husband and son.