There are red marker stains on their fingertips
while pictures of clowns and horses
sit on the table in front of them.


I place a marker in Mary’s hands and she holds it
like a candle, tip up; she stares at it closely.
The one who always sits, asleep, with her hands
clasped together in what looks like prayer, opens her eyes
long enough to see the picture of the white flag
wave in front of her. Her trembling hand accepts
the blue marker and she draws
a staccato line across the page, then drops it,
resumes her position.

Charolotte carefully examines the marker. I pull
her arm down and, together, we draw a circle.
Can you color in that circle?
Yes, she says in a voice so assured that you’d think she was free from dust and feathers.

I stand up and back, admiring the pictures, admiring the circle they make as they sit at the table. This circle
smells of orange peels and antiseptic. The further
I step back, the more I am out of the fog
that surrounds them.

I am on the other side of the room now, in crisp air. I know I leave for home in an hour. I will cook spaghetti for dinner. I glance over at my lovelies, my group of tarnished gold,my people sitting in their fog,
quite content because they don’t remember
what a clear day feels like.

01/02/2006

Posted on 01/03/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky