her lying, sheets thin, mattress barely a support
she dying
glistening fluorescent light a harsh reveal
of her ruddy body, bare
save for the taffeta pajamas,
a crispy swath of rose embers,
issued by a crisis,
yet, her mouth curved a bit, sitting next to her—so low—
i felt gravity’s relentless tug
and she curved, wincing at the pain,
although it hurt; a scissor-like pain throughout her entire frame,
she said it was okay;
her hair, long and brown like spaghetti string,
matted by the months of neglectful uncombing;
her beauty an archetypal beauty, matching the faces of every woman who was,
his, an is, an unmediated face of pathos lines, matching every face of those who are
No comments:
Post a Comment
Be courteous. Speak your mind. Don’t be rude. Share.