The Poet Community

Hospital Sill | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

“On the sill today
the sun’s pure white.
Usually it’s gold,”
says Nell, propped
in a smock,
all frills,

sipping tea
turning cold
as she braids
white ram
horns of hair
high and tight

to the sides
of her skull.
“On the gold days
like this I warm
my hands for hours
at a time on this sill.

the doctor said
someone should
paint me.
A still life
that’s what he said.”


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