Paper Weight
They float in a perfect cube of clear resin,
a set of US mint coins from 1994.
He kept it on a dusty shelf
in his doctor’s office, next to the penguin
wearing a beret I sculpted for him.
We would take family trips to flea markets
so he could look for coins,
dollars, half dollars, nickels, pennies, silver, copper —
he felt their weight and contours
in his deft surgeon hands,
the coins preserved, frozen in time,
memories of a time long gone,
a reminder and remainder of him
and the unquantifiable weight of his loss.
Metal on Bone
When my mom’s friend Arthritis brewed
a storm in her knees,
the simple everyday task
of flushing the toilet made her fall.
She was found crumpled
on her bathroom floor
like balled up toilet paper.
X-rays and scans unearthed
her injury— a break in her femur.
She has metal in her now —
her organic existence compromised
with rods and screws that will join her
in her earthy grave.
Her family has faith in the skill of surgeons,
the fidelity of screws,
the strength of metal,
her mettle,
for the long journey to recovery
that stretches barren before her.
They pray she will be able to walk again,
metal on bone,
bone with mettle.
Miriam Manglani lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with her husband and three children. She works full-time as a Sr. Technical Training Manager. Her poems have been published in various magazines and journals including Red Eft Review, One Art, Glacial Hills Review, Paterson Literary Review, and Lothlorian Poetry Journal.
Sparks of Calliope 