Is There a Poem

 

for the woman next door
as she drains into a bag—liquidating
a little and a little, melting
into her last summer, putting
by her memories, like jars in the pantry?

Each morn, the downy hair
left on the pillow. Each night,
urine-spotted sheets.
Pain keeping company
as the clock clicks the hours.

Sometimes on the porch,
there is relief—swinging
nested in the quilt, dyed
green and blue, peonies beyond
the screen and sun upon the bees.

But mostly there is waiting—
and a holding of the breath
—in case a poem drops by
to visit for a spell.

***

From August to May, Patricia Miranda teaches high school English. From May to August, she grows too many tomato plants in her zone 6A garden. Her work is forthcoming in DASH Literary Journal, and she is currently completing a middle grade fantasy novel about goblins.