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Commiseration
October 17, 2014
My attempts to shake her were vain.
Her body was just bones, wired on a porcelain frame.
My attempts to ease her pain,
became some complicated, twisted game:
keeping my sanity and tossing tacit shame,
and yet I still bled an ugly red.
Read the papers, I borrowed fame
to get to my own death bed.
Where does fate place blame?
The slick roads wet with rain,
that swallowed me and grasped a claim
on my blood that spilled and the arcane
thought that misery was beautiful,
it washed down the drain,
and dissolved with her luminal.
© Claire H., Boxford, MA
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For my mother, who died in April