by Ashley Warren

Sun-browned skin, bottle sweating freedom beads,
colors
colors
laughing birds. Got the news—“she has Parkinson’s…” Ask a travelling doctor, “what’s worse—that or Alzheimer’s?”
THAT, etc. etc.
Big picture. Too many turisimo vans away to see it—so I picture Michael J. Fox on TV—limbs and eyes dancing—accompanied by some dark shadow slicing away all rhythm and poise.
It’s summer when I meet this new mother version– It’s home and green and the air sticks to fear.
A sad orchestra echoes each laugh. She gets drunk with me,
listens to my stories while the shoulder jerks to an angry violin. Everything is smaller—shrinking like forgotten fruit– but she listens
and I wonder what dances are to come. I wonder
if her neck will get sore and how long we have before the freedom and orchestral strings are broken.

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