An incredible poem by Clare McCotter on Algebra of Owls.
Slowly unwrapping her little layers every morning
we soap rinse dry from head to toe
deodorize her musk, perfume her neck and wrist
dress her in clean underwear
colour coordinating outer.
We dampen her hair
styling it the way we think best
we make her bed
chiseling out corners
lining up the shells on the counterpane.
We call her dear, speaking her name over and over again.
Quickly crossing the dayroom floor we all hold hands
reminding her of the day month year.
Near the big blue chair
she birls round n n n n n n n
n n n n n
drawing her knees up to her chest
she swings from our arms
like the ball on a strange executive toy h h h hh hh
Safely strapped in, the air around her writhes
till hands wither
and hang exhausted from the…
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