Elizabeth Bolden, 116, world's oldest
Memory: a faint
heat against a doorjamb,
inside a thin blade of glass. There:
your wide, placid face like a paper
bag, or a section of windowed sky
damaged by more than light. Unraveling,
your hundred years soar
up like moths from a jar, hum above
our heads, flicker each time a granddaughter
presses a hand to an eye. The earth
has absorbed you back to its dark
locket. And we sense you, still. When flowers
resist winter, we are not surprised. When
lightning snaps like a chord.
Elizabeth McDonnell is a staff member at Kelley Writers House at the University of Pennsylvania and a recent graduate of Franklin & Marshall College in Lancaster. Contact her at amcdonne@writing.upenn.edu.