Page 57 - The Bridge Vol 17_pgs
P. 57
VOLume 17
Auntie barbara’s house
Adam Blowers
She said her breast
was like a deflated football,
left in the snow all winter long—
lumpy and lifeless, with those thick stitches
holding an empty air sack together.
She couldn’t look down.
She kept staring
forward at her curtains shut tight
to the darkest and deadest winter—
the trees stripped naked, desaturated
bark and skylines that no light could break through.
She apologized.
She said sorry
that she didn’t shovel the stairs,
that it was dark inside her house,
that all night all she talked about
was the tumor they removed with her breast,
how food tasted like battery acid
and felt like razor blades inside her throat,
and how she wishes we could have spent more time together,
but she needed rest.
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