Stroke, Age 75

by Iris Jamahl Dunkle

She was floating in the bath looking at
the ceiling as if it were a constellation of stars

when time shook out its mane.  Flung her, dumbstruck
out to sea into deep water. So blue

it bloomed purple. Water became tepid.  
You can’t sail through these doldrums without sail--

After, her writing slanted.  Crowded.  Tossed 
itself overboard. Memory seeped from 

the deep, clouds of Man-of-War breathing sting--
Until she becomes again a young girl 

wearing a black, cashmere dress.  Steam hushes
the platform. The weight of her past leaves--

a steam engine backing away.

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