Anna's Room

by

Mary A. Green

Late winter sunlight
Passing over earth
Reaches again the place
Beyond corner of the old grey farmhouse
And pauses at a window of the room
Where Anna dozes through her days

Motes
Like gem dust
Find paths upon the rays
And dance windowward to cosmos
To be stopped by barriers of glass
Creatures of body cells and lint
And dust of nearby fields now sleeping under snow
Infused with smells of liniment and menthol And naphthalene of moth balls
In pockets of Anna's black cloth coat
Fur-collared and chamois-lined for warmth
Now closeted in cover of a threadbare sheet

Roused by sunlight Anna stirs
And reaches
For the hot water bottle barely warm
The tepid water seems alive
Splashing 'gainst the walls of its container Anna holds it tight against her
Willing the waning warmth to penetrate
The crepey sagging breasts
Milked of all sensation
Except the memory
Of a baby's hungry mouth

No warmth sufficient here to take away
The press of pain inside her chest
She stretches her arm full length
And finds among the clutter
On the table by her bed
The menthol jar
Her fingers rub the sticky balm into her chest
And for a moment pain subsides
Anna's hand searches under a pillow
A paper bag rustles and motes
Hover expectantly
As if to snatch a raspberry red candy
From her cragged grasp
But lips reach to meet the hand
Tongue presses upward
Against the roof of mouth
Eager for comfort of
Sour berry sweetness
Anna smacks toothlessly
And drifts off into sleep
To dream of windows open wide in springtime
And brooding hens settling on their eggs
And flowered sateen comforters
Airing on the fence

---