Poetry Reading

for Natalie, who lives her life in a wheelchair



How can I not join in?


My voice an involuntary wild-bird cry,

torn from some wind-lashed tree.


My father sits nearby as close as skin,

feeds me security spoon by spoon.


My poems grow in silver spittle trails

that swoop and shimmer, swing and sway;


embroidered messages

that he must wipe away



© Genista Lewes     from ‘Cat’s Cradle’

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