Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Pity

by Ann Keniston

 

Toward the end when we sat in our chairs,

tenderness rimmed us and pity

 

like the dark around a lit place

or a sewn border, the little stitches

too tight, pulling the cloth

 

or sparrows at the feeder, never

close enough to touch

 

because from her weakness, she had made

a shield to protect me from her

 

and then I reached out my hand, touched her cheek,

read aloud until she dozed.