they began to take
things of hers as she lay
not dying, not quite,
but asleep,
a ring slipped
off her finger,
a watch from her wrist, rosary
beads lying in a small
puddle on the nightstand.
even a tea set from
Russia was lifted from
her cupboard
as she lay
in the hospital,
trying to remember
her own name,
the names of people
in the room,
but these were children
of hers
not thieves,
storing her keepsakes
out of sight
where only they
could see, already picking
at the bones.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment