Old Growth
by Marilyn Westfall

The nurse towels
then swabs Jean’s
cleansed fingers,
notes no edema,
rash or fungus

and clips nail tips
rough with chipped
magenta polish
applied before
her stroke. Jean

blinks with each
snip. Her right
hand flinches,
left lies limp.

The trimmings
litter bleached terry,
confetti on snow.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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