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Poetry |
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the bag she keeps her mind in
hangs off her zimmer frame, the crash barrier that goes everywhere with her. she’s sat down on herself, a high seat chair with her name written in blue biro on a strip of Elastoplast stuck to the backrest. ninety three, maud braithwaite is one of a dozen elderly residents strung in rows across the day room like worn beads. the bag’s in her lap now, her fingers and thumbs worrying the zip trying to get at herself. she pulls out a package, saying to no one in particular that her mother just gave her it and wouldn’t take any money for it. it’s a silk purse, vintage, with a silver clasp and sequins hole-punched out of rainbows. it’s wrapped in a pair of white disposable pants “to keep it nice ‘cause everything nice spoils.” To listen the audio version of this poem recorded for litup magazine, click here to play now 
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