THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2011

Helen Overell

MORSELS

After her sister was ensconced in a home,
the lump in her throat worsened, she ate
little, her zest for cooking gone,

an individual quiche from the delicatessen
lasted for days, the blank expanse of plate
covered with a dressed green salad

she barely touched; the doctor understood
her need for no fuss, discussed treatments,
timelines, asked about near of kin,

said that her daughter needed to know;
for days, crawl of evening began with whiskey
that numbed fear, mangled long-distance calls.

Mornings were brighter, brought new resolve,
her budgerigar learned the word stent.



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