EMMA We shared a bench in the sunlit hallway, outside the 33-bed lockdown unit. She chattered, this this this, there there there, pointing a shit-caked finger to things floating by. Each of her eyes a glassy sea; each leg smooth and bowed, like hickory. Hospital gown rent in back; loose diaper, feathered white hair. Somewhere past the sky, the angels copied her: holy holy holy.
The above watercolor Briar Cup by David Jones (1932) felt deeply appropriate to me to go along with this poem. The bright, wild and colorful composition alone re-connects me to Emma; this is how I remember her. And then notice that the window frame is missing, causing two worlds to merge—the outside and the inside. The whistle of the teakettle is joining the whistle of the bird.
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