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.