BY VICKI IORIO
Copyright is held by the author.
She was shaving my father’s face when I walked in —
my dying father and his nurse.
Machines kept him going until someone signed off on his death.
My small mother, tiny vigilant figure in the corner did cross-
words, ate cold American cheese sandwiches in the winter-
green hospital room.
My dad, boy of summer, lifeguard, diving
board clown — hated winter,
wanted to move South but my mother would
not leave her darkness.
That bitter ice storm day when
the nurse was my father’s intimate,
I ended it.
***
Vicki Iorio is the author of the poetry collections Poems from the Dirty Couch, Local Gems Press, Not Sorry, Alien Buddha Press and the chapbooks Send Me a Letter, dancinggirlpress and Something Fishy, Finishing Line Press, The Blabbermouth. Alien Buddha Press. Her poetry has appeared in numerous print and on-line journals including The Painted Bride Quarterly, Rattle, poets respond on line, The Fem Lit Magazine, and The American Journal of Poetry. When Vicki is not writing poems she is either on her Peloton bike or drinking a crisp white wine.