My grandmother was the only person

I’ve ever heard use the phrase might should—

the uncommon marriage of two helping verbs

that, when joined, suggest both

hesitation and intent.

To be brave and unsure,

to hold two contradicting things

in the same mouth.

It was a weld of words that, to my child brain,

meant almost nothing,

like a middle name or a silent e.

I might should call her back.

We might should go to the grocery store.

You might should bring a jacket.

After she died, the phrase swirled

and sloshed through my brain—

pulled me into the undertow where her voice

now exists as a shell song.

My grandmother was a woman who

placed her words like steppingstones:

thoughtfully, deliberately.

All these years later, I understand why,

of the phrases she might have favored,

she chose the one that sounded

like the hush between tides—

one that left a bit of space

for pause, for grace,

for things still taking shape.

My grandmother once told me

the reason she got thyroid cancer

is because she never spoke up for herself,

as if each withheld word lodged itself

in her throat, splintered like chicken bones.

But it wasn’t the cancer that took her,

or even the starvation and dehydration.

In the end, she took the low candle with its

dying flame between her potter’s hands

and pinched it out with two firm fingers,

which is to say, after a lifetime of swallowing

her own desire, in her final act,

she struck a bell and sang.

I haven’t been to yoga in months;

broke my gua sha in the sink;

didn’t eat enough protein today;

forgot to take my vitamins.

Most days, I don’t drink water

until noon. Warm lemon water? Never.

Coffee with cream and two raw sugars, please.

I do not meditate. Rarely journal.

I have sworn off ice baths and fasting

and gluten-free baking, and my god,

I have never been more well.

For so long my skin hung threadbare

from my bones—

stretched to fit any shape

but my own, mending invented holes

until my fingers bled, hands too full

of frayed edges to raise a fist.

I’ve learned that a woman

who wears herself, unaltered,

is not perfect, but free:

the loose thread

that may just unravel it all.