You Told Me Not To Watch

By Conlan Heiser-Cerrato

For Grandma 

I am the grandson of flooded  

moon—of still frames holding last 

Christmas’ flowers. Their 

reds, yellows, and the  

out-of-focus brunette that  

drips to the floor. You,  

tucked between glass 

panes, reaching within  

yourself to let go. Pressed 

against the barbershop 

window, one eye closed, 

and my vision clears. 

Deep she cuts, she shaves 

letting edges fall 

away into things I 

cannot see. The pink-crystalled 

rosary held tightly within 

your peeling hands. 

Watching as you lose 

your Irish curls. But 

I was always peeking around 

the corner, looking upon 

you picking clumps 

out of the shower— 

their ends tinged with 

graying blooms. You 

did not want me to see 

such weakness as you 

gave up part 

of yourself to an unwanted 

settler. The barber cuts 

deeper; your hair spins 

towards the ground. I  

am small, crammed  

against the barbershop 

window. The fluorescent 

lights illuminate 

your rosy cheeks, 

turned upward in 

defiance, in strength. 

I am the grandson 

of brightened forests, 

newly grown after 

fires. I am the grandson  

of lingering goodbyes.  

I am the grandson 

of the fight—the wars  

we wage for family.  

About the Author...

Conlan Heiser-Cerrato is a junior at Loyola Blakefield in Towson, Maryland. He loves to write poetry and listen to music. He has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, National Council of Teachers of English, and JustPoetry. He attended the Kenyon Young Writers Summer Residential Workshop.

About the Artist...

Sofia Lataczewski is a Venezuelan immigrant currently studying at New World School of the Arts in Miami, Florida. Since a very young age, she’s been involved in art, believing that it’s a better way to express the hidden meanings of her words.