The Daughter

Now, that he is dwindling,
going down
for the third time,
in the tangle of the sheets,
she comes from far away
to care for him.

She wipes his face,
tips tiny sips of water
in the sunken cave of the mouth
that spit the battering words at her;
washes the hands
that sent her running
for the woods.

Once, she lay
beneath the maple tree
all night,
praying for a fire
to come and take him.

Today she rubs his feet
and scrubs the kitchen
of the trailor
where he's lived for years
at the dead end
of a dirt road;

hauls in the wood
that keeps him warm.
She is making things right,
in the only way she knows,
the holes
he's left inside her.

-- Deb Cooper

Send Comments to Greg Gordon MD, CFI, cydoc@earthlink.net
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