Waiting for the Angel

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David MacRae Landon

Waiting for the Angel


      “What do you make of this?” my mother asks,
      then lies back down. Her bed’s the couch. She’s blind,
      and ninety-five. Today, August nineteenth,
      my father’s ninety-eight. He’s having wine,
      but he’s too weak to sip it through a straw,
      and so I feed it to him with a spoon.
      We’ve brought his . . .
      . . . . . . .

      Able Muse Write Prize for Poetry, 2019 ▪ Winner

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