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


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.