Grandma,
I love it when you swoop
into the Crepe Myrtle.
Your new body: a cardinal.
Little flame,
burning against the dawn,
you look so peaceful
preening your feathers.
It wasn’t always simple:
a finger pricked, the faint beep
from the front seat, your
needles in the green lunchbox.
Look at you now.
Bouncing between limbs,
legs spry as springs, as if
we never did a dance
down aisles at the mall—
your wheelchair rolling
over the toes of anyone else
looking for khakis.
How does it feel to have
bones hollow as a fresh grave,
lungs filled with bay breeze?
Is it easier to breathe now—
finally freed of the mask
strapped around your head,
crimping your perm, bolting
your body to it’s tank?
Stop.
Let’s watch the fence
slice the sun into rays.
Poke around the crab grass.
I left bread crumbs
all over our yard.
Josh Corson is a poet and organizer originally from Tampa, Fl. He is currently pursuing a B.A. in Poetry from Columbia College Chicago. A recipient of the 2016 Elma Stuckey Poetry Prize, his poems and short stories have appeared in december, anticlimatic, Slactivism and Fallero. He is also the founder and Editor-in-Chief of Habitat Magazine.
