my grandmother's long fingers

drew on my back

i was to guess the shape

before she finished

a fruit, a pear, no, a pineapple

like the cake she baked

sugar-laminated

slices from the can

sweet messages on long car rides

we talked in pressure, in pictures

a tree, a garden, no, a house

all warm brick and places to hide

she’d sometimes look

through the windshield and softly read

a sign aloud, like

“elm street,” “donnie’s donuts,”or “exit 7”

as though that would tell us

where we were

or where we were going

any more than handmade citrus

over cotton, over cake

turned upside down

when what she never drew

was a sign to guide us back