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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