Olga
By Matthew Voscinar
Those brittle bones, like old branches,
crackle under her own weight and
barely bend. She lies underneath
floral sheets and trembles.
“They’ve locked me in here,” she says.
The door is wide open.
It's just poetry, it won't bite
09.15.16 Posted in today's words by Annmarie Lockhart
Olga
By Matthew Voscinar
Those brittle bones, like old branches,
crackle under her own weight and
barely bend. She lies underneath
floral sheets and trembles.
“They’ve locked me in here,” she says.
The door is wide open.
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Ahhh Bless her heart. Poignant.
Wow.
Dear Matthew, I lost my dear mother in 2006 at the age of 93. Thankfully her mind was quite clear, though her body simply gave out. Your poem touched me so much for two reasons; I lost my Dad to Alzheimer’s and my mother’s name was Olga. This is powerful.
Sandy