Waiting for the Angel
“What do you make of this?” my mother asks,
then lies back down. Her bed’s the couch. She’s blind,
and ninety-five. Today, August nineteenth,
my father’s ninety-eight. He’s having wine,
but he’s too weak to sip it through a straw,
and so I feed it to him with a spoon.
We’ve brought his . . .
. . . . . . .
Able Muse Write Prize for Poetry, 2019 ▪ Winner
. . . . . . .
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OR: [1]
Links:
[1] https://www.ablemuse.com/digital-books-27/v27/digital edition/Complete Digital Version of -/Able Muse, Print Edition (Number 27), Winter 2019