A lovely short poem. — kenne
Circumscription
by James Penha
At ninety-eight my aunt turns inward:
her lips sucked in between empty gums,
eyes, myopic without glasses she refuses
to bother with, see little, her hearing like
a rock, lack of appetite withering a frail
body, memories of her world as spotty
as an erasure poem although she usually
recognizes me on the third or fourth try—
not the doctor, not the nurse, but me,
the nephew she smiles to say she loves.
PAINTINGS: Numbers 9 and 8 from the Color Numeral Series (ULAE 59-68) by Jasper Johns (1969).
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My aunt has survived the pandemic and so much else in her 98 years. She is frail now and forgetful. My visits with her at a New York assisted living facility recently provided a good memory for us both.
PHOTO: The author with his aunt in New York (2022).
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Expat…
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Becoming is Superior to Being 
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