2014

The New Year spreads itself before me.
A lake of possibility, flat as the fens
that surround me here.
Nothing ruptures that meniscus for,
like me, it is waiting.

2013 was angiograms and heart surgery.
And my mother falling and falling
again like a skittle of bone.
I picked her up, I picked her up and up.
Each time she was thinner, yet she did not

break. I started to look as if I loved
the cardiac rush of A and E.
My husband, my mother,
passing through its revolving door.
It became too familiar.

So 2014 will do its best or worst.
Who knows what hydra-headed
monsters might be waiting,
though I can make my own.
Or shoals of fish, glittering.

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