What Happens Now?
It was
the most loaded question
I ever heard from
a skeleton with skin
and bones,
mascara,
blush,
eye shadow,
and lipstick.
The question spills out
dribbles through Nana's lips,
down her chin,
slowly
hanging
there
waiting
for Mom's answer
My mind wanders back
to summer beach days
in Cape Cod, MA
when I found money
in the sand
and bought Nana ice cream
from the treat truck.
She loved me
but later when I cut my foot
on glass in the ocean,
Nana told Mom I should
have worn sand socks.
Now she says
“dont remember me
like this”
Three generations gather
round the hospital bed,
Nana heaving
dry sobs from the brittle bones
osteoporosis fashioned-
skin stretches over,
blood vessels surface
her shins like crop circles
Heaving dry sobs
her daughter holds her,
words
would just
fall
flat
like the spit on her chin.
Sand caked to the blood of my foot.
Nana carried me then
like I want to carry her now
away
from the vascular monster,
the cellulitis,
the commode by her bed.
I want to fill my bike pump
with my own blood,
pump it through her veins
till my body sweats
its weight in emotion I refuse.
I'd pump her blood
every
where
but then my phone beeps:
one new text
My life goes on
through phone wires
her life drips
throw bag and tube.
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