Ram on the rain scarf, a print I hung on the wall, a tapestry so crude a subletter pulled it from the wall and crumpled it in a drawer. The image shows a shaggy creature a grin barking out, a yellow lunar moth lighting on its hide. Can we describe it as, can we call the ugly thing bright tallow against navy blue a chiaroscuro? When she wrapped it over her orange curls in the German rain, my grandma never would know the dementia coming for her, her body a degrading web, her throat forgetting how to swallow even ginger ale, her favorite golden drink robbed of her. Under a tree, her body thick and glorious under a tree, the rain purled over the ram, a string so precious over the moth, could she have felt the hands pinning it up, the sub-daughter never so young that lying in the face of danger surprised her. My grandma the forger the hoarder the caller the scientist the mother the girlfriend the wife the widow. How likely the sub-daughter sees utility as decorum, a rain scarf protecting auburn curls above a brain that would drown in her golden soda.