Volume No. XVIII
Volume No. XVII
Volume No. XVI
Volume No. XV
Volume No. XIV
Volume No. XIII
Volume No. XII
Volume No. XI
Volume No. X
Volume No. IX
Volume No. VIII
Volume No. VII
Volume No. VI
Volume No. V
Volume No. IV
Volume No. III
Volume No. II
Volume No. I
Archives
Volume No. I
Volume No. II
Volume No. III
Volume No. IV
Volume No. V
Volume No. VI
Volume No. VII
Volume No. VIII
Volume No. IX
Volume No. X
Volume No. XI
Volume No. XII
Volume No. XIII
Volume No. XIV
Volume No. XV
Volume No. XVI
Volume No. XVII
Volume No. XVIII
Strong hands, now frail, cannot even grasp a glass of water dribble-spills down the front of his gown I am too small to lift him and too scared to tell mom
mop up what I can reach, avoiding his gaze tuck the blankets tight to keep him warm riddled with guilt certain pneumonia will come calling I can already spell cancer look at me learn
I am too young to know this, I don't want to see how slowly death moves like an obscene, unwelcome lover and I try not to fear him, I love him!
but I'm afraid he sees how I flinch when claw-hands reach my way or that he hears in what I do not say what he said while he was out of his mind and I hate myself for hating him for falling so low
and I am quite sure this is how a Catholic child buys her ticket to hell
Colleen S. Harris grew up on Long Island in New York, but prefers the South. She attended both college and graduate school in Kentucky. Currently an assistant professor and Reference & Instruction Librarian at the University of Tennessee in Chattanooga, she pursues an MA in English Literature at UT-Chattanooga, her MFA at Spalding University, and a serious tattoo habit. To date, she has been published in Creekwalker and Poetry Midwest.
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