Grandma kept saying 
“Son, don’t yield to temptation” 
over and over   
Her faint scratchy voice  
spooky as the October wind 
blowing around dry cornstalks   
Her old woman smell 
of stinky asafetida 
thick in the closed room   

“Son, don’t yield to temptation” 

These were her last words 
then the death rattle   
In the aftermath 
of her dying, the advice
cautions my pleasure
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