Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue One

Alan King


— after Tony Medina Lying in his hospital bed, my uncle is something condemned and roped off. His mouth sags like a warped porch. His eyebrows are shutters long overdue for repairs. His unshaved stubble — mildew collecting on façade. Cancer squats in the basement of him. Chemo runs up the stairs inside. Something yellow loosens the plywood from his eyes to peek out the windows.