The Weakness

That time my grandmother dragged me
through the perfume aisles at Saks, she held me up 
by my arm, hissing, “Stand up,”
through clenched teeth, her eyes
bright as a dog’s
cornered in the light.
She said it over and over,
as if she were Jesus,
and I were dead. She had been
solid as a tree,
a fur around her neck, a
light-skinned matron whose car was parked, who walked on swirling
marble and passed through
brass openings—in 1945.
There was not even a black
elevator operator at Saks.
The saleswoman had brought velvet 
leggings to lace me in, and cooed,
as if in the service of all grandmothers. 
My grandmother had smiled, but not 
hungrily, not like my mother
who hated them, but wanted to please, 
and they had smiled back, as if
they were wearing wooden collars. 
When my legs gave out, my grandmother 
dragged me up and held me like God 
holds saints by the
roots of the hair. I begged her
to believe I couldn’t help it. Stumbling, 
her face white
with sweat, she pushed me through the crowd, rushing
away from those eyes 
that saw through 
her clothes, under
her skin, all the way down 
to the transparent 
genes confessing.