She had trees full of them, red seeds with black centers�
they gleamed like pairs of devil eyes. We called them
�lucky beans� and filled leaf pouches. It was a cousin�s dare

to swallow one, but Grandma took one look at my belly
and knew the secret inside it. She made my younger brother tell,
like always. It took a half hour of bloodying my throat

with the tubing, thick as yard hose, the reverse entry of it
shocked my palate and my dry eyes and my gag, all to pump out
one shiny chyme-slicked bean, which didn�t seem so lucky

to me. The next one Grandma took inside the green walls
of that hospital was the youngest aunt, the reckless one.
She got sick, my mother said, from a man she�d been with.

I remember the Sunday she came back, wrapped in pink,
reduced, no more luck in her eyes�she walked right through
the sharp glints of Grandma�s tea set. Even then I knew so much

had been lost. But Grandma, she served the women
shortbread and rallied for service. I mouthed empty words
from the back pews, slit my eyes to watch her praying, furiously.