“Purgatory” by Mary Allen

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She sits, strapped in her chair, gazing
toward the narrow swath of grass
the brochure terms The Garden.
Save for the incessant twitch
of her left hand and the rhythm
of her shallow breath, she does not move.
On good days she is silent, subdued. On bad,
she babbles and shrieks in a language known
only to herself and spits back the pabulum
proffered by the hesitant aid. Despite efforts
of staff, she often smells of stool.
Long ago, after visiting Aunt Belle, she said to me,
If I ever get like that, take me out and shoot me.

-Mary Allen

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