My grandmother, rest in peace,
waited for us down below
while we rode the roller-coaster,
hands raised, screaming at her.
Too sick to go on, she stood
near the exit. The bandana
on her bald head flapped
in the wind like paisley hair.
A wave of her small hand, tears
on her face, though I can’t recall
if they were tears of happiness
or something even more painful.
She should have been made a saint
right there, cheering us while
she rocked and tumbled inside,
raced a thousand miles per hour
in the most terrible of all directions.
JAMES VALVIS lives in Issaquah, Washington. His work has recently appeared in Atlanta Review, Confrontation, Eclipse, Hanging Loose, Nimrod, Pank, Rattle, Southern Indiana Review, and is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Crab Creek Review, Gargoyle, H_NGM_N, LA Review, Midwest Quarterly, New York Quarterly, River Styx, South Carolina Review, and many others. A book-length collection of his poems, How to Say Goodbye, is due in 2011.