(For my Grandma)
The doctor said it could be malignant
the gumball mass removed from your jawline
radiation to let it know it is not welcome back here.
And then you discover that your taste buds are a valley
of dead radio waves
not a dance to be had on your arid tongue
until, like an overlooked present found when taking down
the Christmas tree
a lucky unscathed tulip after the bomb smoke clears
one lone tower filling the silent dark with the best song—
Chocolate.
You can still taste chocolate.
You can actually only now taste chocolate
a love note from God that he sees you and he
remembers the little things
a communion in Hershey squares
breakfasts of fudge swirled, double-scooped envy
a wealthy lover buying dinner every night.
Your tongue is a golden ticket that Charlie Bucket
would run thru the streets for.
You’re pretty sure you wished for this once
in childhood at the malt shop,
which has long ago stopped being a malt shop,
when your father leaned down and told you that
you could have whichever flavor you wanted
and everything is malt shop now
because you said
Chocolate.