Purple Hearts

//purple hearts

Purple Hearts
(c) by Liz Southwood 1998

I do not know
how a day will go,
why meds help,
more or less,
my moving,
my whispery, muffled voice,
my swallowing.
I remember how croissants,
buttery, warm, crunchy,
coasted down my
eager throat.
Now, as they clump,
I choke.
I've learned to sit straight,
tilt my head down
to swallow.
When eating out,
my throat clutches
and I'm scared
until I find someone
there who can do the
Heimlich manouver.
If I don't,
I barely nibble.

This early April morning
a rain-rinsed breeze puffs through
my open bedroom windows,
so fresh and cool I
long to be out in it.
Through the screens
I see sunlight gleam
on dripping, silvered
eucalyptus leaves,
their scent intensified
by rain.

If I try a walk,
will I move
awkwardly as Frankenstein,
have to fight the loss of balance,
spiral down, while quick-stepping,
sideways to the ground,
be awarded a purple heart
the size of a dinner-plate
on my hip
to match the one
I got last week?


CHATHAM

Deep pink roses by
weathered gray cottages, nod,
fanning the salt air.