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.