She caches her jewelry Cardboard tubes under her mattress Hidden from faces she can’t remember Haunting her with changed bedsheets While disembodied voices perched on telephone wires Check on her She gripes They’re stealing my things At the liar: Voice too old to be her daughter Sunday – no – Wednesday No How can it ...

A rhythmic beeping permeated the darkness. A warmth squeezed somewhere at something. Then, there was light. An impulse twitched and flicked my soon to be recognized eyelids. In my periphery, a soft blue blur came into focus. It draped over an arm – my arm. My tremoring vision followed my left arm to the source ...