Spring 2010

Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 1


Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

Jomar Daniel Isip


The Home

“That’s Agnes,” my mother says, as I roll
the wheelchair down the Home’s hall, me pushing,
and the sorrowful wails from Agnes pressing
behind us.

“Jesus, make my bowels move! Jesus, make my bowels move!”
I smile and my mother smiles, a little, and we roll
past the floral print wallpaper imitating
the gardens some would tend when they could
tend a garden or defecate
without a prayer.

We make it to the activity room – pokeno in progress --
“The thrill of POKER and the suspense of KENO”
My mother tells me she’s good at the game when a nurse
asks her if she needs to use the restroom before it starts
and my mother says no and looks at me, smiles, a little
and says, “You can still hear her, huh?”

I could. The supplications were steady and crushing
like the Home, the drab wallpaper flowers, and my mother fading
into too much rouge, too little lipstick, grey eyes
and questions she asked just moments ago,
“Yeah, mom -- Jesus make my bowels move!”

She laughs, so I do. I kiss her goodbye
trying to remember if poker was thrilling
or keno held any suspense, realizing
I couldn’t remember either game,
but I was sure I had played...

“Jesus...” Agnes started as I walked past her room --
I moved too fast through the exit to hear the rest.
She died the next week, when pokeno
was over and my mother was asking me the same question
again, “What did you plant this week, son?”


© Jomar Daniel Isip



Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

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