The edge


We are at a tooth’s edge of mutterings,
Onto blanket white wall of vertical sky.
We bang in it in our moment of protest
Only to grow horns like a dark evil one.

We are at edge of bed , at hem of skirt
The tip of nose, the end of lip corners
The end of the words, an end of throat
The vertical wall made up of blue vapor.

We are at a horizon of blue mountains
And the horizon is at the edge of bed
At the start of the vertical sky of vapor
We bang our heads in and grow horns.

(Recalling my mom’s dementia journey before death)


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