Poem: Escape


Joy works at the scabs beneath the cast
on her right arm
and she watches her family enjoy each other
through lowered eyes, studies
her grandmother, dressed in ill-fitting, musty
clothing, staring into night,
picking picking picking at imaginary threads on the
wheelchair armrest. Her grandfather
stands nearby, talking with her mother and father,
one foot turned out
toward the wheelchair. With her good hand, Joy 
rubs her eyes, helps
clear the table, and settles in for television
under the Christmas tree.

first published in Zygote in My Coffee

Published by Brendan McEntee

Poet and critic living in New York near Long Island Sound.

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