Old ladies, together


Old ladies, together


Cohorts and cabaret slurpers.


Those wilding years, we’d held

hands, through one of the other’s



sister wives, paramours, two

on a spin of the dice.


We were supposed to be old

ladies together.


Then misunderstandings turned to

withdrawal, into perceived animosity

landing sadly, into stage four of



And either of us budged from the

seat of our stubbornness. 


We should have been, could have

been, old ladies, together. 


Teeth on the toilet seat


They were kept in a glass, next

to her night stand.


But soon, she had lost it; her

sense and her teeth, scattered

throughout our 3 room apartment.


Thick in her accent, indicative of

her loose grasp of English, I hoped

she would stay in her room, when

my friends came to call.


Decades on later, and I’m now a

grannie, stuck with both shame and

chagrin, over my less than kind

tolerance for Estelle, my old grandma.


Fearing I’ll reap my own karma, I still

cringe when I must see the dentist.




Emalisa Rose


When not writing, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting and birding. She volunteers in animal rescue. Living by a beach town, provides much of the inspiration for her art. Her work has appeared in The Beatnik Cowboy, Ariel Chart, Literary Veganism, Mad Swirl, and other wonderful places. Her latest collection is "On the whims of the crosscurrents," published by Red Wolf Editions.

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