Suzanne White, 04/12

Every Wednesday

like every Wednesday you take your grandmother out
for a spin in the wheelchair.  Words stop and stare at you
in your head, and you refuse to write them down

because you want the trees to mock you.  You want the pain
of the near-miss of the twinkle of light the breeze leaves
through veins of leaf.  As if she can see

your angst, your grandmother grasps her throat.
You kiss her on the cheek, and the fine hair
is as repulsive as the old river crawling toward sea

Promote. Poetry.
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