Cusp
Marilyn Westfall White narcissus gleam between us, a constellation you nudge aside to pour tea, not yet steeped, from wintry porcelain. Your lithe fingers tremble, a sapling’s branches weighted down by late spring snow. You bury your hands. Your gaze stays sidelong. Soon--I know-- your rooted grievance will bloom. For now I sip the tepid hints of jasmine. Gestures (In two acts) i. After her son’s trial with a supplemental drug, she’s braced for bad results. His case manager concedes, yes, the patient’s skills have regressed; his reasoning is muddled, his speech-- at times--incoherent. Let’s up the dose of this prescription, but wean him from the other altogether. Once home, she rolls each last pill from the vial and splits pearly milligrams into half moons. ii. On edge of her stiffest chair, she grips its walnut arms or feels for her walking- cane, eyes darting from phone to hallway. She mutes the TV to track his overhead stomp, and when it stops her heart still thuds; her nose and throat chafe from his chain- smoked menthols. I’m done, she thinks. In the quiet, a door creaks. Then comes his bawl-- Don’t fuck with my drugs. She’s sure that soon he’ll calm, gorge on chops baked tender, then leave his plate to soak, his token of remorse. |
About the author:
You can find recent poetry by Marilyn Westfall online at Illya’s Honey, Right Hand Pointing, Muddy River Poetry Review, Contemporary Haibun Online, and Red River Review. She lives in Lubbock, Texas, and enjoys traveling and hiking throughout the Transpecos and the greater Southwest. |
