by Kathleen Carlton Johnson
I have come to visit my aunt.
The sky is overcast gray.
It matches the carpeting in the nursing home.
She is in room 113 separated from another woman by a sheet,
(That hangs in bleached silence)
It is her birthday and I brought flowers.
They look artificial in the room.
She cannot speak, her damage
Has made her sink into a bulky quiet,
Her hands are pink with useless fingers.
Her face speaks anger and confusion,
As to how this happened,
without her consent.