Nursing Home

by Judy Kaber

The woman rises, one hand
on the chair’s arm, the other
held by a younger woman.
As she stands, her lips
press together, her eyes almost
close. A necklace hangs
loose. A pleated skirt
covers her legs. Only
her arms and face
go unclothed. Someone once
kissed her, bent over her
in bed, tasted her sweet
breath. Three other women
sit in a circle with her.
All of them in wheelchairs.
Knuckles like rocks. Once
they worried about loose
wires, wolves, sounds
careening outside the house.
Now they have come
to the country of the old.
One woman clasps her hands
beneath her chin, as if
to ask a question. One keeps
her shoulders hunched,
tongue lost in a haze.
Three young women
attend to them, look
down on blue veins, sick
faces, touch them
without their consent.