I watch her white shirt
sway against the corpse-drapes
shriveled on the wall, wrinkled
like waves under her eroded eyes –
her repetition was a lion,
teeth dug and dragged her
limbs back and forth:
her body a puppet,
her mind a worn-out toy –
But I should be grateful
that her legs are not yet stiff
pale hospital sheets
and her heart still drips
rain through its gutters
even though soon
her mind will be ironed –
her thoughts flattened
like a flower pressed
into a memory book.
Maggie Hall a new poet who derives her inspiration from the ordinary world and emotions around her.