By E. Laura Golberg
She was a sturdy ballerina,
now she’s like the tiny
white mushroom that grows
just above the grass,
gills on top, open to every wind.
Unlike me, her grandma, she still
has years to live. Should my breathing
falter, that plastic V below my nose,
would be more justified and proper
than for such a child. Kidneys, hip,
blood, merely a list of components
we all have, but hers are deluged
with infection. Fever, white cells spike,
as she lies in the ICU. We can’t take her
in our arms, protect that flushed face.
Instead, she’s embraced
by tubes, in her flesh
needles en pointe.
Category: Featured, Poetry