Museum Of Poetry Archive

Mornings, when the tide recedes I breathe with the egrets. She averts her gaze And the glaciation follows scraping against my sternum and face, a landscape of liminalities. Here, she is afraid to harm herself and watches me carve her pain from my own flesh. Here, he cries, terrified of the blood loss. Here, her light burns sick morning to day. Here, he breathes shallowly against my chest. I have learned to love through the abnegation of self to water. Constantine Mountrackis Glen Cove, New York

Mom sitting on the couch, alone Disease has immobilized her. On the turntable, Both Sides Now by Judy Collins is playing. She is singing along, getting all the words wrong. My mother is dying. Not realizing that I am there. Seeing for myself— The eventual fade. I leave the house… Crying my eyes out… Dementia is a mother fucker. A brutal carnage of brain matter… I really don’t know life at fucking all… Dan Provost (Berlin, New Hampshire)