MUSED
BellaOnline Literary Review
Weevil by Mark Berkerey

Table of Contents

Poetry


The Dying Room

Joann Grisetti

We read.
Cheap paperback novels short, fast,
sitting on her bed.

Between the spoken words
unspoken thoughts litter the room
filling the dusty corners like so much
detritus worn from her former self.

My voice grows weak,
and tired, but never as tired
or weak as she, scored with wrinkles,
bones growing caves.

I look past her yellowed skin
to the mother who read to me
when measles made the rounds;

to the woman who nourished
her family and gave us the
back bone to face the world.

I bathe her, I comb her hair,
I kiss her check;
I close her eyes.




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Reader Feedback:
a poem that I can relate to. She makes this human condition very real for the reader.
~andrea