art and writing from the Snell sisters
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Late sun smoothes her quilted skin,
her cheeks rise under her eyes.
She’s silent in the car, squints
at streetlights flaring up along the road.
She says nothing when I feed her,
but I see how she tracks the glint
that bounces off the spoon.
When downtown smog smudges
her bedroom windowpane, I begin
to draw the drapes. She tugs at my wrist.
It’s not enough,
but let it in
Cheryl and Janet Snell
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for an ailing mother
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