Poem for Grandmother

You are no stranger to the cruelty of children.

They mocked your name into hiding

and that is why now no one calls you it, not if you have anything to say.

What everyone thinks is your name, you borrowed

from your favorite housewife heroine

who sounds just close enough.

And in this name

there is no shame

but nor is there in its precedent;

and if you only knew what it meant

would you resent its pagan significance?

Or would you find relief in learning

your namesake was once so spectacular?

The Nereids, the sea nymphs, entourage of Poseidon;

flood heralds, tide maidens,

saviors of sailors and mothers of heroes,

singers of golden melody

and solace to many a doomed lover.

Your middle name is not a blight but a crown of crimson coral.

If only you knew the image it stirs,

when you put the whole thing together:

Light and water, a beam in the blue

or just under a storm,

the carnival flash of a delicate comb jelly,

marine snow that falls like stars,

a shine in the wine-dark.

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