POEM: ARMING
July 28, 2026
By Patricia Ranzoni
ARMING
(September, Maine 2001)
Tiny fingers, ancient things…
—from Nellie Wong’s “Grandmother’s Song”
Those who can gather, do
Every road is awash with flags
Armfuls from gardens just in
Fish on the stove —war talk war
Every road is awash with flags
And the Bangor Daily’s centerfold
Fish on the stove —war talk war
Cook good women cook
And the Bangor Daily’s centerfold
Old men treading ask to help
Cook good women cook
Radio, low, pass it on
Old men treading ask to help
Under everything rumors, tremors
Radio low, pass it on
Grandmother goes to the children
Under everything, rumors, tremors
Wait ’til I call, Gramma, all right?
Grandmother goes to the children
Something Johnny wants to show
Wait ’til I call, Gramma, all right?
Incense of innocence that sweet smoke
Something Johnny wants to show
OK, Gramma, it’s ok now to look
Incense of innocence that sweet smoke
Five playing with his blocks
OK, Gramma, it’s ok now to look
Bowing to what he’s tugged her to see
Five playing with his blocks
Prays to make sense of what this is
Bowing to what he’s tugged her to see
Best cubes, all animals and alphabets
Prays to make sense of what this is
High as they’ll pile under the mantel
Best cubes, all animals and alphabets
Where the parlor stove used to be
High as they’ll pile under the mantel
Boy-treasure lined up like a shrine
Where the parlor stove used to be
His prized beaded moccasins
Boy treasure lined up like a shrine
Apple-size leather earth
His prized beaded moccasins
Mama’s glass egg he knows is not a toy
Apple-size leather earth
Eagle picture stuck to the flue
Mama’s glass egg he knows is not a toy
Two his-size American flags
Eagle picture stuck to the flue
….what in the world….
Two his-size American flags
She doesn’t see his plane angling in
….what in the world….
Crashing into the stack
She doesn’t see his plane angling in
Everything crumbling, it hits her
Crashing into the stack
Staggering blind to the nearest chair
Everything crumbling, it hits her
He brings her the little globe
Staggering blind to the nearest chair
Show me where it happened please
He brings her the little globe
Gramma, open your eyes
Show me where it happened please
Gramma, open your hand
Gramma, open your eyes
Take this, lots of people have died
Gramma open your hand
His Sacajawea coin searing her palm
Take this, lots of people have died
Climbing into the arms of the ages
Those who can gather, do
—Ranzoni was Bucksport’s poet laureate from 2014 to 2025.
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