The Source
Now that grandfather’s tumors have started
collapsing the timbers of his organs, his body
has started to stink. Nurses hold their breaths
when changing his sheets, giving him food
and water. The daffodils in the vase by his
windows have turned away, shut their petals.
I ignore them when sitting down by his side
to read him the newspaper, tell him of daily
happenings. When it increases in intensity,
I smile and remember reading how the ark,
filled with putrid smells from 151 days
of travelling, beached itself on the summit
of a mountain and all known life crept out
from that foul smelling source.
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