The hospital bed is an anomaly
in my grandmother’s plush living
room. The dull silver clashes
with the gold-accented décor.
She can’t see it — can’t see anything
— though this doesn’t keep her
from caring about looks.
Paint my nails, she demands
of her sister: OPI Dutch Tulips.
Fix my wig, she demands
of me: volume. “The higher the hair...”
An eater all her life, a cook,
never an exerciser. But now,
she is thin — not in the way that cigarettes
make a woman thin in the short-term,
but in the way that cigarettes
make a woman thin in the long-term.
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