There was an ancient, cream-colored, iron, hospital bed
tucked in the corner of the screened porch
two sides of it caressed by the grey mesh
The porch itself, raised three feet above the ground
hugging the front of the tiny, inconsequential
green-shuttered Cape Cod

This bed, a coveted spot
holding you suspended
above the modest front garden
scented by Lily of the Valleys in spring,
ringed with snap dragons, petunias, and hostas come summer

Each night, the crickets’ labored symphonies

The bed, originally purposed to steady people
who’d gone unsteady
at great grandma’s asylum
Her, gently nursing
gripping panicked hands
placing pills on tongues
electrodes on temples

Now a haven
to burrow in
while watching a storm sweep down the street
Tuck the blanket tight under your chin
as rain made mist by the mesh
softly bathes you

You breathe

and wonder,
is it possible those marks
embedded on each corner post
are echoes of restraints?

©Julie Ayers
April 2012 – NaPoWriMo 1

In Bloom




About Julie Ayers

Seasoned apocaloptimist, keen admirer of well-placed words, fierce mama bear of extra special children, black belt hugger, and advocate for a fashion rebellion which elevates the most human of hearts to socially acceptable outerwear.

4 responses »

      • thanks Julie for the comment over my poem.. i am working slowly on my next full length collection which will be called ‘the end of summer’ – when this is done i am then going to approach some publishers and who knows… am hopeful some of the peices from this challenge will be among it x

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