Both were to resemble light,

to which my grandmothers

chuckles collide.

It’s the first

meeting and I promise these

are the only screeches

         leaping.

For residue sights, ask them

what sighs moist blankets

make or why they called

it injera.

They certainly won’t say what

squirts from mouths

or which shades kneads

red.

Never

how brisk spinach shows

up unannounced,

missing peace offering signs.

For that, you must

ask thrice.

But what forms in this

union is an eye

full

almost climbing.

Meaning things begin to

spill.

You misspell this granddaughter.