Poetry by Patricia Ndombe

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.

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