It was rolling metal at first, no, the wooden cane was always there,
dense and loud with angular threats, both too rhythmic
in their hiccups and sneezes, until the black squeaking rail
was removed, was going to be replaced,
but first she fell. Then the high-pitched metal, a finger--left--burnished,
a silky acacia indent.
There was rolling metal, then muffles in her room, door
worn into wall, the frail echo of her drawling bleat floating
in her once bloated chest--walls scrambling framed memories
in the glaze of frosted eyes.
There was her weight, voice, teeth, all these things
sprawled before me like a scavenger hunt,
then lifting her,
from bed to glider--like
swallowing a marbled bluebird egg
With my bloated chest.
About the Poet
Mera Baid Kaur is a mom of four, freelance writer, and educator living in South Carolina.
For the first time in nearly five years, Vita Brevis is closed for submission. Read the full story here.
Vita Brevis Press. 