that’s what my grandpa said

Women weren’t meant to wear horseshoes.
That’s what my grandpa said,
his pants hitched up, his jaw full.
It went through my head,
eight years old and growing,
grasping roles and asters, picking
mums, motherless in Jupiter, my state,
the earth, the universe.
Jake threw the iron shoe, clanked
a dead ringer, and he hitched
his pants like Grandpa and waited,
waited to be old enough to chew and spit.
Grandpa was a Grit man. No
GQ or Cosmo ever reached his door.
Almanacs and catalogs piled up
and Doubleday Dollar Book Club offerings
for Grandma and for my mama, too before
she left Jupiter, my state, the earth, the universe.
I wondered then what my grandpa meant.
Now at forty-eight and growing, I say
women weren’t meant to wear horseshoes.

Celia Miles, a WNC native and retired English teacher, writes in various genres.