A Lament Rises from the Nursing Home

written By

My father is unshaven as though he just woke –
grey stubble on bruised skin.

What time is it? he asks. It’s 3 pm, I answer.
Shouldn’t I be asleep? he asks.

His eyes opaque, search mine,
seek something I cannot provide.

A shadow covers his brain, the one that once knew
Greek and Latin unable now to hold

five minutes of English.
I want to go home, he says. Why can’t I go home?

His day has turned into night. Night confuses him.
I hold his hand and stroke his bony back.

More from this Author

Author

  • Margaret Anne Kean received her BA in British/American Literature from Scripps College and her MFA from Antioch University/Los Angeles. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in poems.for.all.com, Eunoia Review, Drizzle Review, EcoTheo Review and Tupelo Quarterly. She is collaborating with a Portland, Oregon composer to set a tanka series. Kean lives in Pasadena, California.

Read More in Poetry

Share this:

Comments are closed.

Up ↑