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.
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.