Death hides in a corner,
won’t come when called.
Waiting to die for decades,
she wears gray dresses,
no pizazz. At 94 she curses
another day of tea
and horehound candy. In her
nursing home bed she looks
surprised, angry—death
sneaks up, cradles her, tries
to make everything all right.
originally appeared in Moonwort Review (2005)
Ice and Gaywings 