Martha Coats | 2 Poems

The Sitting Room

Like an intruder,
light broke
through my Grandmother’s window.
Except, this afternoon thief
did not take
but gave
colored rays of purple, blue and rose,
brightening her sitting room.

My Grandmother,
in days of steadier hands,
placed tinted glass bottles,
on her window sashes.
When I was small
they were too high to touch
so I danced in their rays.

Now I am older
and able to reach
but I do not disturb her delicate
Instead, I let their colors rest
on my face
as Grandmother and I sit
and sip our tea.

Women at Dusk

Grandmother is an outstretched hand.
My Mother
her comfort.
I neither reach nor comfort.

In elongated shadows
Grandmother worries,
“death comes at night.”
So we sit.

Grandmother reaches, palm up.
Mother shakes-free more sleep medication.
Grandmother struggles to swallow.
And we wait, watching
for the rise after the fall
of her chest.

Mother’s shoulders buck
like a rug being shook clean.
It’s my debut.
I reach.
I take her in.
I comfort.
It’s my turn.

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