She finds it one day
at the bottom of the stairs.
It seems to follow her
through the house, eventually
choosing the living room.
While she lounges on the sofa
it warms her, caresses
her cheek, reaching over to kiss
her ever so gently on the lips.
At night, it curls up, sleeps nearby.
The morning it rains, she becomes
distraught. She senses it has
passed on. Her daughter finds
her collapsed on the floor. For
days she languishes in a coma.
It was inevitable they say
at the funeral, murmuring
about her dementia, but
she had a good life. Dozens
of relatives come to say goodbye.
Graveside, the sun breaks
through, a sliver of light finds
its way to the casket, arching
across to touch the toes of her
youngest grandchild, legs dangling.
Gods, Guns, No Roses
I watch the violence in the movie
from changing angles, dance-like
passes between adversaries wielding
knives, guns, blood strategically placed
to convince us it's almost real.
I want to reach through the screen
and wipe off the grime on the
hero's face, say it'll be fine,
that it's only pretend, but
don't worse things
go on in the world,
without the good-looking
actors, their perfect hair,
props, beads of sweat, the right
cues us in to what's
good, bad, worse, toys
with our emotions,
"real" people in "real"
places going through the paces.
No such music, muscles, unscarred
skin in real time. Maybe screams, blood
in piles, innocents and culprits
smashed together, where
short lifelines converge.
Bio: Theresa A. Cancro writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction. Many of her poems and flash fiction pieces have been published internationally in online and print journals, including Jellyfish Whispers, Pyrokinection, The Artistic Muse, Modern Haiku, Haibun Today, Chrysanthemum, A Hundred Gourds, The Heron's Nest, and Presence, among others.
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