She Could Just Sit in a Wheelchair by Patricia Ndombe
I put my depression aside
whenever I take care of my grandmother.
But there is always enough time
to wonder what she thinks of me
as I help lift her out of bed.
She can hear the discs of my back
scrape spine. Screw ergonomics.
What will I tell her
if she asks of my back?
There is an hourglass that
sits on her forehead.
She sits up and swallows pills
like I swallow sleep. Grandma,
please, let us get you a wheelchair.
I can hear her tick to the
beat of a dying analog clock.
Please stop worrying about us.