Visiting Hour
 

The ICU takes the flurry from my grandmother, she powers a hundred lights, the monitors, even the motion of her bed. Morphine takes her for a ride, drops her off in dark alleys or the middle of cornfield mazes. She can’t seem to find her own mouth, her tongue is a double agent. She slips into sleep, spies on other worlds. She trains to be a bird. Her fingers reach for cupboards. She answers unasked questions. My grandfather in his hard chair contemplates becoming a ghost, his white hair haunts us already. Their hearts fail to fail each other. No monitors are made to measure this strength. Morphine makes the word love the same as home. Her tongue forgets even to whisper.  

__________________________________________________________

No books or chapbooks yet. I keep meaning to get a manuscript together, but I haven't got much beyond some decent titles. I've been nominated for two Pushcart prizes and, in the last two years, I've had over a hundred poems taken by journals including Rattle, Folio, Prairie Schooner, 5 AM and Diner. I love the work of Charles Simic, Louise Gluck and Russell Edson.
 

__________________________________________________________

autumn 2007 | kaleidowhirl
books and chapbooks from authors in this issue