Like a statue, he sits
silent, still, representing
the memory of a man.
As the IV clings
to his forearm, dripping
life into his violet veins
Nana traces her finger
along the cracks of his face
like she's searching
for directions on a faded map
studying
83 years of experience
chiseled into his cheeks and forehead
remembering
a life of boundaries
his love, like barbed wire
keeping her at a distance
unless she wanted the scars.
But now he sits silent
thinning like an icicle in thaw
with bruises, like inkblots, dying
the paper thin skin of his hands.
