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