The Video Call
It sounds like there’s a string quartet
in her living room, but she says it’s the radio.
Her table is lit with tea lights, candles that
twinkle, they wink at you, probably scented
like spruce or pine or something herbal
called Howling Horse. She says she’s unwell.
We’ve known each other our whole lives.
Our mothers were sisters. But I’ve only
truly known her in the last decade or so.
We write poetry. Our secrets are in them,
and we know our secrets are safe there
because nobody reads poetry.
And then she says the doctor diagnosed
a large meningioma brain tumour,
and I feel my world pulling away
from the approach of brutal grief.
AI Digital Artwork is created using Midjourney. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @midjourney
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