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Bottled Preserves

The glass was so thick

contents obscured from viewing

dark green, snake hue

my head whirled in bifocals


I tried understanding it

from close and far it was

fog, moody, petulant

and the letters were jumbled

like serpents writhing,

rewriting themselves in reciprocals


Cursing, I hated myself

my weakening vision

yet somewhere a small light



It was a picture of Stephen

in his wheelchair, his face frozed

in teeth, eyes hardly glinting


But that voice! Those syllables

so familiar from way inside him –

the place where ideas are formed

mixed with metallic humor


Wincing, I screwed off the top

of the jar. Inside lay the fruit

sweet and sugary – last year’s legacy

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© Johnmichael Simon



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