IRENE’S SONG, AGE 86
I tell you, someone is stealing birds from the sky.
My teeth keep crawling back
into my mouth. Outside
the window is not California.
Snow.
A dog visits. I touch his face.
I met Seymour at a swimming pool, and now the ladies
come
green pills and cranberry juice: bills.
Where are my rabbit fur gloves?
The state of?
The bearded man is Seymour, or
he is my son. Shake my hand,
you.
I seem to have misplaced my glasses, my husband.
If I had this to do over.
I tell you, this will not
do.
I once had a strong body, then I used it.
Rain is: fat. Today is: I can’t
Outside: the grass, the lake, the flag, the rope.
I look for my water. Shatter on tile.
Who’s that
on the TV, pale legs dangling,
humming
Shabbat songs?
I’ll tell you the secret of my porcelain
garden: The rosebush is not a rosebush.
The shovel sleeps standing up.
Anya Groner‘s poetry and fiction have appeared in journals including FlatManCrooked, Word Riot, Story South, Memphis Magazine, and Umbrella Journal. She recently received her MFA from the University of Mississippi where she held a Grisham fellowship in fiction. She continues to teach and write in Oxford, Mississippi.
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