|
Wolf at her Door
by Kristina Woodhillat 90
they will not set her broken arm
purple bruise from wrist to shoulder
ship sailing, eyes sinking, horizon rendevous
too old, too weak, too too,
a superlative in nothing left to do
but watch her fade away
at 69
he tears her house down
into boxes,
dissembles living building blocks
her life in boxes, walls left
for wolves to huff and puff,
claim their bits of straw or furze
fully aged
we watch from his sidelines
cognizant of his inner storm,
ours only recently subsided
soup we offer, casseroles we bake
in that tireless oven
kin to the crematory
all just a matter of degrees
10/20/2013
Posted on 10/20/2013
Copyright © 2024 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Linda Fuller on 10/29/13 at 10:19 PM A post-tonal shift poem. "...casseroles we bake/ in that tireless oven/ kin to the crematory/ all just a matter of degrees" is marvelous.
"He" is her son, yes?
|
|
