Jennifer Shikes Haines | If I were to wear my grandma

If I were to wear my grandma I’d wrap myself
in a clothesline of newly-washed dollar bills,
a hairnet of S&H green stamps and marked up pages of
The Daily Word. I’d wear lemon meringue rouge
and whipped cream shoulder pads, my scent the sweet smoke
smell of Sunday Roast. I’d have
the kindest eyes. My lap would expand for anyone
who wanted to perch there,
and the neighborhood children
would ooo and aahhhh at the abundance of free
pocket change at my waist — everyone could try
their luck at pick-a-pink at the candy store. I’d have
one orthopedic brogue for comfort, but also a brassy-red,
42nd St. pump for my need to dance. The
sun would always shine on me like my own personal
spotlight. I could pop my teeth in and out at will, and
each time, a new rainbow would emerge. If at Church,
I’d pin a simple pink pillbox hat to my cloud-soft hair
and adjust the lace precisely. This click of my fingers,
adjusting, would allow me to sing
“Nearer my God to Thee”

and mean it.