EACH WEEK

Bedridden at ninety-five,

Her long white hair

Always combed,

She drifts in, she drifts out

Of that place

No one can reach.

She recognizes the flowers

He brings. “Daffodils,” she says

At the beginning of spring,

“And who are you?”

Michael Miller’s poems have appeared in the Sewanee Review, the Yale Review, and Raritan.

Also by this author
Published in the May 2020 issue: View Contents
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