ManicDDaily

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Last visit, her face was swollen, foreshortened by
pink scarf, but her cheekbones (Cherokee, she told me
when we were young) have now reasserted
themselves, her scalp refeathering.

You look so beautiful, I say, words she seems
to pick up, smile flickering,
until she turns again
to trying to sit, though we have
to catch and lift and
her husband
to support her,
which she cannot
bear for long.
I have to get up, she says,
I have to get out of this place.

He tries to stall, talks of brushing her hair
first, and for a moment, she leans
into his fingering
of brief curls, but then, determined, arching away,
I’ve got to get home.

You are home, he tells her,
in your own room, your own bed,
but she pushes now so hard
that we turn her legs, gather her arms, lift and walk
her to a chair, which despite whimpering
urgency, she cannot take, its chintz print
roses on vines.

Did you call the car? Tell him
to come right now?  You know you’ve got
to call it. 

I called it, her husband lies
as he holds her head close to slide down drops.
But I’ve got to go home, she cries, pulling away
from body, pain, still air.
Just stay for a bit, he whispers.

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I had determined to take a break from writing but I am posting this revised version of an older poem for dVerse Poets Pub “Meeting the Bar” prompt on home, hosted by the wonderful poet Pamela  Sayers (who writes of Mexico) and Victoria C. Slotto.  This is a poem that I have rewritten many times, never really able to get it right.  A different version can be found elsewhere on this blog and in my book of poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco).