Weird Sisters
written by: Bill Ratner
@billratner
I raise the window shade so my father can see.
He says the light makes it easier to watch them
rustle their silks, heave their bouquets of sighs,
bestial and gnarled.
A sprinkle of plaster is evidence—
a small round hole
in his bedroom wall.
The aunties have come, he says.
They gather to colonize the narrow chamber,
the pupils of their eyes wide black circles
wrinkled cheeks, empty shadows,
cloaks that chafe like pasteboard.
They are often useless, he says,
Sitting there
sipping my claret
narrating my life.
On his difficult days
they suggest a dosage
to help bring him to rest.
He hears the draining of goblets.
Colors disappear,
red the first to go.
Darkness draws my father,
his legs crossed as if he were on a cruise.
- Weird Sisters - November 4, 2024
