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When my mother was in psycho-geriatric by Sheila Jacob

When my mother was in Psycho-Geriatric

She fluttered towards me
with tiny rapid steps,
her eyes darting jet beads,
her hair a bedraggle of grey
as though she’d roosted
in dusty guttering,
found nowhere soft
to lay her head.

She plucked my sleeve,
showed me to her room,
perched on the bed’s edge
and chirped non-stop
about coins stolen
from her purse
and a big black man
who hid in the wardrobe,
loomed out one night,
scared her half to death.

She pecked angrily
amongst her clothes:
vests were missing too.

Her voice rose to a squawk
as she circled, quivered,
almost stumbled
against the window.

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2 thoughts on “When my mother was in psycho-geriatric by Sheila Jacob”

  1. Sheila’s perfectly described extended metaphor, combined with the factual title leaves us nowhere to hide. What she gives us in this poem – the opportunity to remember, empathize, prepare — is one of the reasons we need poetry. Thanks.

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