FROM HER CHAIR

by Sydney Solis

Bent fingers
worn toes
like claws
a steel pin to hold them straight
false teeth, barking, coughing, spitting
in your chair
a million town magazines lay at your feet
slip and break a hip
your death would mean his freedom
and yours from the black filth beneath the refrigerator
a 21-year-old house
never has seen a sponge
at its feet
the black that is in your bones
in your feet
in your words
that hit
like
nicotine
on brain cells
that cut oxygen
and life
from the living
and me

1985