She is caregiver,
he the patient:
her face lined
by worry, fear; his
concentrated:
ward off pain.
We carry our bodies,
burdens, babies,
not our selves.
Self shines in an eye
the set of lips
hides a soul.
I sit here, I write,
I judge, I note.
Sandra Kohler is a septuagenarian; a wife, mother, mother-in-law, grandmother; a lover of Shakespeare and Elena Ferrante, of mysteries and crossword puzzles, of Philadelphia Flyers’ hockey and the music of Mahler, Sibelius and Dvorak; a gardener; a sometime teacher; above all, she hopes, a poet.
