for Natalie, who lives her life in a wheelchair
How can I not join in?
My voice an involuntary wild-bird cry,
torn from some wind-lashed tree.
My father sits nearby as close as skin,
feeds me security spoon by spoon.
My poems grow in silver spittle trails
that swoop and shimmer, swing and sway;
that he must wipe away
© Genista Lewes from ‘Cat’s Cradle’