Author: Emily Buchanan, Family, Illness, Poetry

You can’t reach my sister’s door without getting wet.
Scarlet plants along the path collect dew in droplets like blood –
It’s a way of thwarting guests.

Her son’s offer to prune is met with suspicion;
She knows how surgeons tend to overdo.
She limps quite badly, now.

I give her two white towels knit like gauze.
She hangs them next to the shower chair,
And uses them to blot her scars.

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