by Madison Stuart
The first time my mom had a stroke
it started with her fingers.
They curled in on themselves
tendons up octaves
tight fist into wrist
wrist into forearm
forearm into elbow
neck on sternum
sternum on knees
until she was a tiny bit on the pickup seat.
My father sped to the hospital,
bed full of fresh sawdust,
wood shavings stirring into the asphalt
like powdered creamer, how peaceful!
On a cool Kentucky morning
to just keep shrinking until you dissolve.