LETTERS TO DOROTHY
Silk hair wisp in my fingers. A fallen perm.
A skeleton jaw choked by solid food.
A sticky lunged voice breathes mouse shaped vowels.
You are a grown infant, trapped by too many first steps on worn feet;
Smuggled from a place of independence trafficked into care.
I bathe your leathered frame, try not to crack hips in my shallow grip
yet as I hear your stories of the unsafe world of a home pining for you.
I am overcome with this obscure belief
It goes against professional advice.
But for me; on my scarlet call:
- Go home to your cat.
- To live shorter
- To die earlier
Surrounded by what you have lived for.
YASMIN ROE
Also by Yasmin,