Old
ladies, together
Cohorts
and cabaret slurpers.
Those
wilding years, we’d held
hands,
through one of the other’s
catastrophes;
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
absentia.
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.