shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Mary Grimm

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Late Winter

In the morning the little TV is still
dead, its face still gray. The square
of sun on the fake Persian rug is

weak, fading and returning with
a querulous persistence. Three times
this week I have placed my mother's

leg on a pillow she sewed herself.
I saw my father's foot without its
sock or broken moccasin, misshapen

and purpled, bent. On the phone my
mother tells me she has lost her paring
knife, which she misses like an old friend.