by M.A. Scott
The title, he says is Elegy. I leave my body. Counting,
twelve panes in the door, four in each transom
make twenty. How many lines of masonry
in the chimney (fifteen though I had hoped for one less,
a sonnet of flagstone). An urge to leap from my seat
to adjust the kilter of a copper sconce cramps my thighs.
When his words cut through–hospice, morphine–
I stab the pads of my thumbs with my forefingers.
Bless the pain. Watch a bird hop from one branch
to another, disappear. One bird. How many
laced shoes, buckled shoes, slip-ons. How many
wear glasses. One dingy friendship bracelet
on the bare wood floor in its slant of October light.
Whose wrist, what rift. What knot untying.
M.A. Scott is the author of the Hunger, little sister (Ghost City Press, 2024). Her work has recently appeared in Harbor Review, Crab Creek Review, Jet Fuel Review, and Stonecoast Review. M.A. grew up in Rhode Island, and currently lives in New York’s Hudson Valley.
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