In
the Home
In
the Home where my darling lies,
curtained
away from her quiet peer
(whose
name, I swear, is Mary Loony),
there
is a cozy room on the first floor,
a
small “library” where the patients
who
are able, browse through several
shelves
of magazines, romances,
“Cryptocurrency
for Dummies,”
and
verses by Joyce Kilmer,
the
placebo of American poets —
a
pretty paltry selection for visitors.
I
bend in front of the books
with
my darling sleeping in her wheelchair
beside
me, and find a kids’ old science reader
full
of colour, Rocks For You and Me.
As
a child, I loved rocks and even now,
remember
the three types: igneous,
sedimentary,
metamorphic —
fire-born
igneous, sedimentary,
“squashed
from pressure.”
Metamorphic
rocks begin as one kind,
but
with time, stress, and heat
slowly
change into a new type of rock.
While
I linger over bright illustrations,
my
darling groans a bit in her sad tilt.
Yes. I like it. I like reading it. It's just right. I feel I have been there. Feeling things.
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