Poem: Effigy

Some old folks 

are like glazed doughnuts,

crusty effigies

on the brink of plastic lunch trays.

The dribble of orange juice,

the nausea of snot —

but she smiles,

because she’s old

and happy

that her son —

well — only me —

came to visit —

a chocolate heart wrapped

in aluminum foil — 

that I went and took a photograph

of

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Poem: "nursing home"

 

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

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